Said the Gramophone

America Years Ago

Big Deal - "13 (Big Star Cover)"

When I received a cover of Big Star's "Thirteen" today, I thought, "oh, that's a nice one, plus we have a strong history of posting covers of 'Thirteen'." So I went into the archives. It seems back in June of 2004, Sean posted a version by Kathryn Williams featuring "the only non-atrocious use of bongos I can remember". In July of 2005, Jordan posted a Kind of Like Spitting version, which he compared to both the Elliot Smith version and the original. In his review Jordan goes into minute detail about differences in the libretto, and their subtle effects on the song's personality, which is funny to read. Then not even a month later, Jordan focused on the original entirely, comparing Alex Chilton to Cher. But then, that was it. Turns out we missed about 7 other versions.

There's the version by Garbage, which is a real nice video-time-capsule of what it probably would have felt like to walk around inside MySpace. And the Håkan Hellström version, which is notable for its linguistic qualities, "so I can shake you" is apparently not translatable. The Resentments do a version, which, when sung with this kind of world-weary gravel, gives the adolescent lyrics a bit of a pedo quality ("tell your dad get off my back", maybe he's not the wrong one here). The Wilco version is only interesting because he made a cover sound like a song he wrote. Mary Lou Lord and Evan Dando both have versions, neither of which I will ever listen to again. And then, it turns out Beth Orton & Sam Amidon did a version earlier this year, and it sounds remarkably like the first one I posted today. Although Big Deal sound a bit more xx-y than Orton & Amidon, both have that hollow center, that whistling echo.

Now while I like the Big Deal version, this little journey has left me feeling more ambivalent towards this song than ever. Like when the repetition of a word makes it feel meaningless. It just made me wonder how many Spider-Man reboots I will live to see. 20? It might be as high as 20.

[Buy Big Deal]
[Buy Big Star]

CORRECT HEADING

James Irwin - "Old Cars". There are fish that flicker like flames, and others that glow like bulbs, but most are not luminescent. Most are as dark as the sea. It is these fish I watch, or imagine watching, as I stand at the porthole and look. We are still moving. After all this, we are still moving. There are red lights flashing, klaxons sounding, tremors in the frame of the submarine. Saltwater drips from welded joints. I pace the corridors, tightening seals, replacing fuses. The periscope was swallowed by a whale. The larder is filled with tinned kippers, bourbon, stewed cherries. On the bridge I tap the dials with the hard tip of my finger. The needles have stilled. I am not sure if we are sinking. [James Irwin used to play with My People Sleeping / MySpace]

Onra - "The Anthem". I sting like a bumblebee, frill like a peacock, punch like a hammer, kiss like a wineglass. I am immortal and loose. I am slipping toward royalty. I am fresher than a brass plaque, I'm tight, and I know how to tune a flower. [thanks john! / buy]

---

Elsewhere:

I am grateful for evidence of time-travellers.

Tyler Martin and James Rabbit made a sloppy, overwhelmed video for their song "Candles". It's good.

Scientists have built a catapult for throwing pies at bees.

This is an exceptional mix whose title says it all: 1970s West African Psych/Funk/Highlife Mixtape.

And finally, I've made a mix for the end of October. Download it here [73:28, 105mb]. If you like this thing (above links included), you should follow me on Twitter.

image source unknown :(

A MIRRORED SHARD

Eternal Summers - "Safe at Home"

10 different hats, 8 of them are scoop cuts. 40 pairs of shoes, 33 are slip-ons. 99 dresses, only 3 aren't empire cut. 5 bikes, all with a basket, 4 have chain guards, a different 4 have plastic flowers in the handlebars. All this in a warm evening fog. The streetlights bloom and bead up like droplets. Figures come into light and drift out into grey. Not a single discernible face, only feelings, only drinks, only walks home.

This song is stretched, arms outstretched, tips of fingers touching summer and knuckles gripping grasping onto fall. [Buy]

The Donkeys - "Lower the Heavens"

Fall onto grasping gripping knuckles, and summer. Touching fingers of tips, outstretched arms.

And wool. My God, the wool in this song. [Buy]

UNTESTED CRAFT

Sea Oleena - "Island Cottage".

A song about plain things, sung in cold colours - blues, whites, silvers. It's the knot of these things, the lace of colours, that catches you. You can get lost in a sky, you can go swimming in a sea. Layering guitar, synths, voice, lost claps, Sea Oleena makes this stuff seem very simple. But there are ten thousand bedroom artists laying layers in GarageBand. The trick is the whole, the more-than-the-sum, the way Sea Oleena's gorgeous assembly does not feel made - it feels fallen.

[hear more / Sea Oleena is from Montreal]

Baby Eagle - "Child of the Weather".

     She looked him over and said, "You're not as tall as you look."
     He wanted to laugh but he didn't. He was trying to steel himself, to not be smitten.
     "You're as short as you seem," he offered.
     "So-so," she said. She had hazelnuts in her eyes. "So, so, so, so."
     He wished he had said something funnier. The grass was green, and it was summer, and the garden was brightly lit despite the late hour. The yard was full of people, tipping bottles between their lips, quieter than you'd expect. Over K's shoulder, M saw a trio of owls sitting on the plywood fence. She saw him staring.
     "What?" she said.
     He had already realised they were fake. "Nothing."
     She looked. "What?" she repeated.
     "The owls. I thought they were real."
     "They don't look real," she said.
     "How would you know? Have you ever seen real owls?"
     "Yes," she said.
     "Yes?"
     "Yes," she said. "I'm from the sticks. Of course I've seen real owls."
     "Three of them, standing in a row?"
     "Yes," she said, smile curling, raising her beer.
     "On a fence?"
     "Sure."
     "At a party?"
     "Yep."
     "Just standing there, watching."
     "Sure, millions of times," she said.
     "What did they see?"
     "Bonfires," she said. "Barbecue. Stars. Lovers' quarrels."
     "Are we lovers?" he asked, emboldened.
     "We've only just met."
     "So not yet," he said. "Are you really from the sticks?"
     "Yes. Are you really from the city?"
     "No," he said.
     "I was born at the top of a mountain."
     "I was born in a tree."
     "I'm ten thousand years old."
     "I'm a torn newspaper."
     "I'm bonfires, barbecue, stars."

[MySpace/buy]

(artwork by Alex Roulette)

Politicking Time Bomb

Elton John & Leon Russell - "When Love is Dying"

Katherine and Michael
Lindsay and Kevin
Heather and Stefan
Ben and Sam
Trish and Trish
Jen and Neil are headed out to a birthday to-do for Jen's co-worker. Matthew. Gay Matthew, as Jen calls him. Matthew is having a birthday thing at a karaoke place right downtown. Not a stereotype, it just happens to be true. Jen and Neil exchange a look, Neil trots to a run, he's been parking the car and Jen looks at him like "come on." They go inside and shed their coats, bulky on the backs of small chairs. Order a drink, look at the singer, look at the bartender, look at all the mirrors and tinsel and dark carpets and the loud group in the booth. It seems in this bar, everyone is the loud group in the booth. Everyone except those few vocal snipers that sit alone, sipping a ginger ale, waiting to do their rendition of I Will Always Love You. Squirrelly dudes and older ladies with smoker faces. Smoke- smoke- smoke- smoke- smoker face. Matthew is doing Lady Gaga, and Jen is laughing. She looks at Neil like "this is fun" and he looks back like "good, I'm glad". Jen's co-workers are picking songs, songs like Love Shack, and U Can't Touch This and Achy Breaky Heart. A sniper gets up and does Everything I Do I Do For You. Jen is texting during that performance. Neil checks his phone, for no reason. Matthew gets up again and does Sex Machine. The girls are cheering, and Neil checks his phone again. He nervously swigs his beer, as the song finishes. "Neil!" He doesn't stand up at first, but then everyone stares at him. The music starts, he sings When Love is Dying by Elton John. No one has even heard this song before. Neil has never heard this song before, but he somehow knows how to sing it, and he looks into the small bright lights that shine right in his eyes. Two of the co-workers start making out during the performance. The bartender goes for a cigarette break. Matthew mouths along to the words. Jen grabs her coat and starts to cry.

[Buy]

BROS AND CONS

PS I Love You - "2012". In a corner of the Cavalho Forest, I kneel amid dry ferns and open the lighter I bought at a store. The flame stands up like a little soldier. It does not waver. I press it against the sunbaked bark of a fir. I do not do this out of spite or self-interest. I do it for the reason I tore the buttons on my coat; for the same reason as floods through dams, storms through skies, knives through muscle. It is not that the ends justify the means, it is that the means feel clean, rough, right; and nothing stops floods, or storms, or knife-blades; and nothing will stop me. [buy/don't don't don't miss on tour]

Young Man - "Just A Growin'". DUDE, CHILL. [MySpace/buy]

Very Kind Millionaires

Cousin Dud - "Crows"
Cousin Dud - "In the Fair"

I was born with the seal of Amathon, guild of the lucky and the kind. At age 9, having been spied by an elder, a wise elder with a long blue robe, I was branded with the seal of Bunubbin, guild of the cherubs, the sprites. That gained me a position as an assistant to a nobleman, and he forced me to do many things I'd rather forget. For those years I earned the brand of Galacia, guild of those talented with beverage and rich of story. For 18 guineas I bought the brand of Falnae, guild of the raucous and rebellious, I stole a weakling's purse and recovered my fee. When I passed through the city gates of Givent I was branded Hilisynct, and joined the guild of the emotional and loving. And still I sought a higher ranking, higher still than most other people dare to dream: I wanted to bear the brand of Juuni, guild of serenity and moisture. The Juuni were unlike other humans. They emitted a perfumed rank, and pinkish glow, a heavenly quality. They walked like floating clouds and carried weight as if it were invisible, they were supremely strong. They smiled kindly, they held eye contact, they greeted and spoke slowly and thoughtfully to everyone they met. They procured sighs and wistful purrs from most strangers they passed, they spread calm. I wanted desperately to be a Juuni, but I found myself in a complicated situation. You see, the combination of the seals of Amathon, the lucky and kind, and Bunubbin, the cherubs, Galacia, the story, Falnae, the raucous, and Hilisynct, the emotional, combined to form a kind of barrier from ever receiving the brand of Juuni. It was simply impossible to be all these things at once. I tried to scrape the other brands from my skin, I soaked in turpentine for weeks, I wanted desperately to be free from them, I wanted to abandon them all for a chance at being a Juuni. But none would come off, not even one, and I was stuck as this decrepit cocktail that strung along the narrative of my life like old telephone poles lift saggy wire. My body suddenly make-shift, my life pointless without any climax, I turned to despair, and I stood facing the edge of the Juuni cliffs, the ones that are meant to be walked along the edge by Juuni for studious thought. I wanted to leap from these cliffs, and as I tipped and fell, a hand grabbed my tunic. A large Juuni, much taller than I, held me fast. "What good can this bring?" he spoke deeply and his eyes were mirrored pools, shimmering in the wind of the cliffs. "Get away from me, blasted Juuni scum," I screamed, my jealousy and inner decay finally belching forth from within. "Very well," he replied, "I will leave. But I will write your life story, and I will perform it for years, and will receive much accolades for it. I do not know you, but I will make it up." This stopped me. I suddenly felt a kind of calm, despite the raging winds. "To hell with you, Juuni," I said, "I do not need you to write my story. I'll do it myself." And decided that the Juuni had beaten me on yet another level, they had turned my spite into inspiration. And I wrote my story here today.

[download EP]

LITTLE SCREAM

Little Scream - "Heron and the Fox". We measure distances in miles of highway. It doesn't matter how the bird flies, or how the fox runs. We are men and women, locked in cars and buildings and jobs and lives, parked a truckstops, and we cannot slip through the forests, swim through the lakes. We are far away, sometimes, and we cannot take the shorter route. Sometimes the shorter route is closed.

Oh I'll give you all the colours
that are left here in my box
if you would draw a picture into which we could both drop
yeah you
would be the heron
and I would be the
fox

I think there are a lot of people in Montreal who have been holding their breaths for The Golden Record, Laurel Sprengelmeyer's debut album. For two years she has been appearing under hot lights and then disappearing, bowing away into shadow; and by the doors there was never any music for sale. No CD-Rs, no 7"s, Little Scream had no MySpace page and scarcely a website. But every time I saw her perform, I wondered, How would you take this home? Laurel's songs were special not just for their beauty, their fragile lift, but for the space she created around them. She would sing a thin, silver phrase, and the light in the room seemed to change. When she raged, with ring & thunder, you could smell the petrichor of somewhere else. It was a secret of syllable, murmur, teeth and tongue.

Now and then Little Scream's concerts were disasters, undone by nerves and tech. But usually they were uncanny splendours. Accompanied by drums, cello, bass flute, or all alone, her music darted and flickered. She is one of those rare, wakeful interpreters, of herself and only. In one moment Laurel is fragile, weary; the next, wild and searching. She sings each separate instant, like Mary Margaret O'Hara (for whom she has opened). Sometimes instead of sounding pretty, Laurel sounds patient. And always, part-mystery.

Dan called Little Scream the best thing he'd seen since Tune-Yards, and Laurel has shared stages with acts like Atlas Sound, Stars, Bell Orchestre, Woven Hand and Superchunk. But she is still unsigned. And The Golden Record, which had help from Arcade Fire's Richard Parry, Stars' Patty McGee, and the National's Aaron Dessner, is still without a release date.

How do you take this home? You keep your breath held.

[Little Scream's website/listen to more songs/videos for La Blogotheque/ She is presently on a US tour with Owen Pallett, Land of Talk and solo; she plays Los Angeles on Friday. Full dates here.]

(painting above is Laurel Sprengelmeyer's Headlong gaze into the impending collision)

NEW TACTICS

Dead Heart Bloom - "Flash In A Bottle". The idea was this: take a photograph of a fish, swimming; and use a flash; and the flash could scare the fish right out of the water, bucking through the air to the shore. This was the idea. It was first devised by Charlie "Marks" Markie, of Hazeldean, ME. It was first written down by his nephew, Louis Pontoon, who settled in Thunder Bay, ON. It appears in his book, Fishing Notions. Very few people bought Fishing Notions. One of these was Charlene Markie (no relation), of Toronto. The volume was inherited by her son, Purcell Holmes, and by his son, Invictus Daughter. Invictus was an opium addict; sold his leather-bound version of Fishing Notions to a Montreal book-seller. 20 years later, this was purchased by Jacques Thibodeau, the infamous "Dog-Catcher of Lachine". Thibodeau left it on a bench, where it was found by Marco Penni, a tourist visiting from Barbarossa, Italy. Penni brought it home. His daughter read it front to back. His daughter went to the lake at Esteval, Tuscany, near where she lived. She brought her Leica. She spent the rest of her life taking photographs, flashbulb popping, waiting for the miracle. I will leave the rest to your imagination. [buy In Chains]

US LOUSY FOLK

S.E. Rogie - "Man Stupid Being". Boy has S. E. Rogie got our number. Human beings are lazy, greedy, deceitful, inefficient and late. We are rude and sinning. This morning I flew across an ocean, belched ten thousand pounds of seal-slaying carbon. I threw out half a breakfast roll. I stole someone's wi-fi and then neglected two emails. My lovers spurn me, my friends resent me, my co-workers hate my jokes. I'm not being self-deprecating; I'm being universally deprecating. We are lousy people, all of us. You there, reading this: you suck. You stupid being. S.E. Rogie's got it right. But you already know the thing, the thing about all of this: Rogie has that other quality of human beings, too. He has a messy grin and a voice as pretty as the morning. I could listen to him sing until the sun comes up. And we could dance. [buy]

Caribou Vibration Ensemble ft. Marshall Allen - "Melody Day". Imagine there is a tree, somewhere, with the most beautiful fruit. Perhaps it is just one or two fruit. Perhaps they are not the same; this is a hypothetical fruit-tree, a magical fruit tree. An apple, a pear and a plum, suspended and softly glowing, on the imaginary tree. These are the most delicious fruit in the world, sweet and tart, with supple flesh. These fruit endow their eaters with deep wisdom, great knowledge, remarkable skills. The fruit-tree is not hidden. It is on every map and easy to reach. Now, imagine the fruit is allowed to remain. Imagine nobody takes it. Daughters are born, and sons, and across every generation the fruit-tree is undisturbed. [buy on vinyl at Caribou tour-dates]

The Hour of Cabs and Cops

Tjutjuna - "Mosquito Hawk"

I shaved this morning, it was cold and the water was clear and it felt as if I had tidied up, the way you forget what mess felt like. I sipped grapefruit tea and dipped bread in yogurt, stretched into socks and clothes, and felt the fall air in my eyes. By the time I had rounded Hampstead, my beard had already started to grow. I tried to avoid the sun, put my back to the cultivating wind, tried to hide it from children and animals (innocent gaze) but nothing was working, my beard was in a mood. It grew in wild lines off my chin and cheeks and slid down my chest. By the time I got on the 37c express, my beard was at my knees, and I already had to hold it down to breathe. By lunch time, as I threaded my hands carefully through the thick pelt to get down a sandwich, it had filled the cafeteria. I thought it best to get outside after lunch, it appeared this was not giving up. My beard grew to the size of a city park. Kites, dogwalkers, soccer practice, casual joggers, the odd cyclist. All stuck, somewhere in the labyrinthine hirsuteness. I lay beneath the locks, hidden of course in many layers of beard, and hoped for an answer to come. Razor rain, cut wind, an electrolysis storm. I began to think of all the things I thought I would be, thought I would do, before these sorts of days became all too common. I wanted to work with minds, I wanted to help people express themselves, drama therapy, music therapy, that's what I wanted. But lying cold without a jacket beneath four feet of beard, praying for something that could dissolve this disaster, it was all so far away now. You can't attend classes with a beard that would cover the overhead notes. Nor could you live with an older grad-student roommate with a kick-ass DVD collection when your beard was a buzz-harshing fire hazard. And you certainly couldn't treat innocent patients, help them paint out their issues or sing out their troubles, when they would literally have to machete their way into your office. No, none of that would happen now, best just to lie here, for eventually park maintenance would come for the final time before the winter, and at least they would find the body. [Buy]

Let Hum Buzz Stay

C.O.C.O. - "C.O.C.O."

She. She, my my. She got hair like a soldier of fortune, she got mercenary hair. She, my heavens. Boots like drugged carrots, a walk like fresh-baked cigarettes. She wild, she know how. Clothes like pencil drawings, shaded and sharp. Hips like goji berries, all you need to survive and they only grow at night. She gosh. She very time. Very, very time. She frost fencing with razor wire, she croque-monsieur-ely you jest, she heavenly unclever, she pointed like a joke from Dennis Miller, like a missile. She beach, she beach and towel. She covered in cash, credit cards and laundry change, she basket, foul, free throw and dunk. She musical master cleanse. She lemon water and sun. She drum like drunk dancing, bass like old gum, sing on consignment. She. She gorgeous.

[K]

(photo by Catalina Bartolome)

SEIZE THE BAY

Parlovr - "Hell, Heaven" Alex from Parlovr wrote to me to tell me what "Hell, Heaven" is about. It is about when he was a teenager living in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and he fell in love with a girl who lived on a military base. Her father was a helicopter pilot. When Osama Bin Laden threatened to blow up Alex's school, the principal declared a holiday. Alex went to the military base. He went to the girl's house. He sneaked in through her window. They kissed, more than once. She was from Kentucky. They are not lovers any more. He was a teenager. This is a true story, I think. These years later, Alex lives in Montreal. He drinks beers at Casa del Popolo, at least sometimes, and coffees at Café Olimpico. There is no sand, no gleaming bone-white city. There are boulevards garlanded by falling leaves, and places to lock your bike, and girls who say Bonsoir. Alex says Bonsoir back. It means Good evening, and Alex cannot help, now and then, from imagining a hidden bomb. [the Hell/Heaven/Big/Love EP is out October 19 / MySpace]

Hello Shark - "My Life". Imagine if a garage were a person: what sort of life would she have? And imagine if a parking-lot were a person, making rich business. Imagine these dumb ideas. // I was born in a place that I didn't think had any people. The garages were not people; the parking-lots were not people; my friends and parents were not people. I decided when I was eighteen years old that no one was real except for myself. They were all made of asbestos, stuffed with straw. // I was wrong. [MySpace]

---

M60: the Montral 60 Second Film Festival takes place this Thursday (tonight!), Friday and Saturday. I'm one of the organisers of this DIY film festival, which sees hundreds of Montrealers making 60-second movies over the course a month. At each of this week's screenings, we'll be showing all 80 completed films - including a movie by me, titled IN COLD BLOOD. Tickets are just $7. It's enormous fun. I hope you'll come.

If M60 doesn't feel right, there are some other options this week: Hello Shark are playing at tonight (and a house party tomorrow), as part of a spoken word night at Lambi. 15 of the city's "best amateur poets" will do short readings. Meanwhile, Mainline Theatre hosts MProv, the Montreal Improv Festival, with the best of local and visiting troupes. The Bitter End - starring Said the Gramophone's own Dan Beirne play tonight.

(image source)

IMPERFECT DAY

"I promise to wait my whole life for a perfect love, but keep busy in the meantime." - St. Augustine

Tweak Bird - "Tunneling Through"
Heavy Cream - "Watusi"

I never want to leave, I don't ever want to say bye to Johnny Snarls, and Kats, and Bunchie, and Mark South, and Little Ben, and Tubby, and Heather S, and The Teat, and Newmarket Neil, and Gun Punch, and The Queen's Hangnail, and Littlest Big Bang, and Zaphod Beatles Box, and Holy Jones, and Innocent Infants, and Red Rotten Murder, and Hepatitis Pee, and The Mongol Loins, and Slash Factor, and Mixed-Up Cakes, and Vandalism, and Truth to Rejects, and You Turn, and Keith. Man, I'm gonna miss Keith. [Buy Tweak Bird] [Buy Danny]

---

(thanks Meags, Vanessa, Ian, Stéphane, and Michael for these)

US SCAMPS

Still recovering from my Pop Montreal, brushing the sparkle from my shirt.

The fivest highlights were these:

1. Khaira Arby at Balattou
2. Shotgun Jimmie, glowing with charm at Cagibi
3. Van Dyke Parks, slinging new catchphrases at the Agora
4. Adam & the Amethysts, autumn- and springing under Phonopolis
5. YAMANTAKA // SONIC TITAN's decorated drone & ring

Thanks to P, D, A, and all the LMNOP.

---

Cass McCombs - "Dreams Come True Girl". James played this song for Alex and I. It was Wednesday. We were about to go out. We sat beside his space-age turntable and this tune was there too, like fruit in a bowl. James had called this "a perfect song" and we were all three listening hard, hearing the guitar solo as if it were an instruction from someone very important. This, this and this. We were serious and smiling. At a certain point I felt a laugh unfurling in my heart, because there we were, three men with legs crossed at the knee, each of us imagining our "dream-come-true girl". These women were floating above our heads like watercolours. They would be skeptical of us, and loving. They would speak three languages. We were such boys, sitting in that basement apartment, preparing for the evening. Karen Black sang "wah wah wah wah" and I felt like the punchline of a gentle, grateful joke. [buy]

I AM YOUR SERVANT AND MY JOB IS TO SPREAD JOY AROUND THE WORLD

Khaira Arby - "Tarab"

I saw the great Khaira Arby last night. In little Club Balattou in Montreal, with its mirror mosaics and dark purple neon, she lit the place up. Dressed up in a big red dress, she wore a headpiece that started flat along the top of her head and then swooped up towards the sky, adorned in gold circles. And as she sung with smiling power in Sonrhai, Tamashek, Bambara, and Arabic, and her band changed time and broke laughing and shredded the shit out of their guitars, Khaira Arby would lean forward singing and the gold circles would shine bright gold light.

From the back of the CD, in reference to "Tarab":

Our homeland! If we work together we can build our nation. Patience my brothers! Nobility and progress only come from work. Like that great Mauritanian warrior of long ago, Gawad, who though mortally wounded in battle, ignored his wounds and kept on fighting until victory, may God help us work together for our future.

[Buy through MySpace]