Said the Gramophone - image by Daria Tessler
by Jeff
Famous rare diamonds of the world

Moss Lime - "I Always Get What I Want" [buy]

This is psych-up music for a world-class diamond thief. She plays it in her headphones in the backseat of her limo, as the chauffeur whisks her to the second heist of the night. She hums the tune as she lowers herself from the rooftop on high-tension wire. She sings the chorus softly while removing the lid of the oversize glass box holding the rare jewel. She exchanges the diamond with an exact replica from her right hoodie pocket, then hides her calling card in the display. If the curators ever discover that they are exhibiting a fake there will be no question as to which criminal mastermind snatched the real thing. The card reads "The Yellow Magpie / Cat Burglar, est. 2005 / 'I always get what I want.'"

[This assured jam from Montrealers Moss Lime's brilliant Zoo Du Québec EP is featured on the amazing new comp Typical Girls Volume 2 from Emotional Response records. Like the fantastic first volume in the series, the second edition features "sixteen of the greatest current female fronted independent punk and pop bands, from around the world," including NOLA circle-pit champs Patsy, sharp-as-knives post-punks Bent, Melbourne twee nihilists Suss Cunts, and Madrid dark punk combo Juanita y Los Feos. All killer, no filler.]

by Emma

Sonny Smith - "Wolf Like Howls from the Bathhouse (South East Land Otter Champs)"

We're tiptoeing into the glowing edges of my favourite season now, the one where everything really starts to overlap. Past and present, day and evening, sound of rushing water through someone's open kitchen window, chorus of dogs freaking out at a nearby siren, drifts of laughter floating down from everyone's second-floor decks and settling around you as you're walking to the store. Sometimes the best way to remind yourself of the smallness of you is to go climb a mountain or stand in a very still, complicated forest. But sometimes all it takes is ten minutes of true city, the close-together-ness.

Once the night air climbs up above room temperature, Toronto starts to shake off its stiffness and be once more a place everyone uses the same way they use their houses, like to live in. A couple nights ago I was very hungover and also pretty sad so I decided to go for a walk and see if the world outside my brain had anything to offer. I'm not gonna lie: I was not hopeful. It was a full moon and everyone was going fucking crazy. A raccoon waved hello to me as he pawed through my neighbours' recycling, not breaking eye contact as he chomped into the side of an aluminum can. A group of kids drifted across the sidewalk like one of those banners pulled behind planes on a clear day, graceful and unurried and waving in the wind, but also they were all screaming very unkind things at each other. The counterpoint of everything was almost too much for me. Every couple I passed was arguing about something very serious but also kind of new: you could feel that these were exciting, sexy, charged-up early-summer worries sprouting from the wreck of winter's worn-out ones.

It got darker and I was still walking. I was tired and I wanted to go home but I also did not want to leave without discovering some kind of magic. And then I saw something, just as I was about to turn back around, at the mouth of a sidestreet I would not have otherwise looked down. It looked so beautiful and strange and confusing against the bruised sky of almost-late-night that it made me feel as though my veins were filled with glitter.

I can't tell you what it was. Or, I guess, I am not going to tell you what it was, because you would not believe me: it would seem too convenient, too wonderfully strange, too much of a device. But it was there, and as I stood there all frozen and marvelling, suddenly completely alone, breeze and streetlights and distant car-sounds and soft light thrown from people's uncurtained living rooms, I felt not for the first time in recent memory a strong awareness of the fact that my life is shot through with a level of wonder that far outpaces and exceeds what I might necessarily deserve. This song was playing in my headphones.

[buy 100 Records Vol. 3]

by Mitz

The Clean - "Point That Thing Somewhere" [Buy]

I hope people don't think I'm disgusting but I was peeing this morning in a rush.

I put the seat up and started peeing with such a force but seat bounced back and I noticed however, I was holding my Saving Private Ryan and brushing my teeth on the other hand so I couldn't catch the seat. So in that moment of 0.25 seconds. I held my pee and let the seat go down so that I don't pee on the toilet seat as it came down. I finished brushing my teeth and put the seat up while holding my pee and completed my task.

I was proud of my reflex so I thought I would share with the world.

Peace

by Emma

Mina - "Piu di'Te"
Adriano Celentano - "Prisencolinensinainciusol"

I think a lot about this one time that Carlo and I got on the subway and he freaked out because he swore he'd glimpsed the train conductor eating a snack out of a bag that just said "HUMBO" on it. I was like, dude, either you misread the bag or it's a snack in another language, one with which we're not familiar. But when we stopped at a station with wifi he looked it up, and there was nothing online anywhere. A misreading, surely, still. But he persisted. "HUMBO IS REAL," he told me. Whatever.

When we stepped off the car, I thought he was behind me, but as I got on the escalator, I turned around and saw him standing next to the front of the train, trying to take a photo of the conductor's mystery snack. There was a pause when the train should have begun to move, but didn't. In that single beat I felt a complicated panic flush through me. What if this man could tell that Carlo was taking a picture of him? What if that was why he wasn't moving?

All day, I thought about this moment, blushing. Months later, I still think about it when the train makes the pictures in our apartment shudder against the wall. Your life is shot through with these kinds of small mysteries, questions to which you might never get an answer: why she left, what he meant, why that strange man took a photo of you through the train window while you were just eating your perfectly normal imaginary snack and trying to do your job. All these open questions just strung through the story of you, glowing their weird light, complicating things. Plus all the other people in the world, carrying around the answers you might never get, not even understanding the value of what they hold. Sometimes the world looks like a complicated piece of circuitry; beautiful and impossible, your understanding of its beauty disconnected from its function, what it actually means.

by Sean


Daniel Romano - "Ugly Human Heart Pt. 2". A silver-screen sheen on you, the streets, your ugly human heart. A whole sky gone backdrop, a whole city gone set. Dashing like a dancer, feeling beer-bittersweet; or if not beery then at least the taste of black liquorice on your tongue. Oh, those silver pinprick stars. Oh, those rainbow oilspots and ruby flashing lights. What a night, what a day, what a loop-the-loop of sorry. Running under lampposts as there's Bowie beside you, or Lennon, and Kate McGarrigle. Running under lampposts like you can outrun your scampering shadow; dart this way, that, and maybe you'll finally lose that midnight thing, be rid of it and loose.

[buy Daniel Romano's wondrous glam-country masterpiece, Modern Pressure]

(photo source)

by Jeff

picture of a floating sauna (Marjo Laitakari Floating Sauna)

e.r. roberts - "large volume of water added to rocks" [buy]

On humid afternoons as a kid I loved the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. Sound travels further through hot humid air, and those far away crashes filled me with a kind of thrill. It was the feeling of being alive, my small life suddenly thrown into relief against the large storm on its approach. Pure anticipation, waiting for the wind to toss back the tree branches, to drop rain so hard that it bounced up from the pavement, to darken the sky nearly the colour of night. It felt electric.

Recording outside of Wakefield, Quebec, e. r. roberts captures the different ways that sound travels through hot, humid air. He's turned into a science. His recently-released Moods for Sauna 1 & 2 harnesses the drowsy yet fully alive feeling of sitting in a hot room for a little too long. Like early Boards of Canada minus the beats or a lost Eno Ambient volume recorded on hissy 4-track in the woods, these synth compositions wobble and weave through the air. Listening to these tracks invites deep relaxation, a sonic space for zoning out. I don't know if there are any properly equipped artist-run centres, but Moods for Sauna played on a loop in a hot wet room would be a rad sound installation.

by Sean


Harmony Trowbridge - "It's Your Funeral".

Sinjin Hawke - "Don't Lose Yourself To This".

The earth is filled with species to which, or to whom, these pieces of music are identical. To a silverfish, a coral polyp, a tulip, these tracks are mostly indistinguishable, interchangeable, the noise of homo sapiens. Don't ask a fern to tell you the differences between Trowbridge's melancholy, with its glinting naked edge, or Hawke's electronica, all jackknifing cascades. Perhaps a whale could tell you something, or a blue jay; perhaps, perhaps not. I could tell you something, I can tell them apart. But there's a strange power in doing the opposite - in telling them the same. Fission is division, fusion is conjoining. "It's Your Funeral" and "Don't Lose Yourself To This" are so unalike - yet go ahead, listen for your minutes, and wherever you find commonality you are also finding might.

Is there a greater power than connecting unconnected things? Turn today into yesterday, lead into gold. The feelings and frameworks linking two sets of sounds: one murmured and acoustic, the other jabbering and artificial. Each of these songs conceals itself from sunlight. Each feels a shiver. Each is a processing, uncovering, not the settling of a thing. Harmony Trowbridge is vividly attentive to her melody, the balancing-act between sternness and sentiment. She wants to say exactly what, and no more. Sinjin Hawke, for all his overflowing, is the same: each beat is counted, each slick crash. The melody's slighter, but Hawke is just as dedicated to it - identifying his motifs, syncing them up, like lining up matching shards of mirror. Each of these songs knows itself sung backward: it has spent time in the rear-view, considering origin and decay.

[buy Harmony Trowbridge's excellent The More We Get Together, finally available as a download (previously) // Sinjin Hawke's magnum opus First Opus can be found here.]


(photo from reddit)