Brendan Reed (Noh Cars Go) - "Unknown title". Brendan Reed has always traded on a mixture of madness and gentleness, at least when I knew him in Montreal. Kind as a kitten, happily weird, with work that goes suddenly violent, abruptly monstrous. I remember him swinging around, inside a school bus that had been transformed into a tour-bus, weaving a story. A smileyface in the evening: redhaired, gentle, unfathomable. I like him, I'm a little scared of him, and he's one of the best drummers I've ever heard. A former member of the Arcade Fire, a current member of Les Angles Morts, The Letlowns, Noh Cars Go, so many more, unstoppable in his music-making. He had a series of experiments, experiments where he had to do things like create whole, finished songs - lyrics, melodies, harmonies, drums, guitars, bass, everything, - in sixteen, or twenty-four, or thirty minutes. Then he went out to a park and collected a few hundred objects, cataloguing rubbish for a dvd, intending to write a song for each. Brendan's never had one sound, one look - he digs in the dirt and sees what he finds. He finds a lot of dirt - dark, thick soil. Soil that tastes like soil. And while others get distracted by the 'treasures' - bells, whistles, old boots, - Brendan remains focused on his hole and his dirt. The work of excavating brown-black song from brown-black mud.

This song sounds unmade. Its parts seem unassembled. A row of tools on a workbench; a series of smells; rock, paper, scissors. Charlie Brown piano and a meandering bassline. Fingersnaps and mumbles. A soup, a swamp, a back-room, a daydream. And yet this is why I come back to the song. All these disparate parts, jangling together, flowing along different currents, and then th-th-there... a moment of union (you'll hear it when it comes). "You're sick in the centre baby," he sings, like an opening (ugly) birthday card. Then more lyrics I can't make out, clouds, deterioration. What does it mean? I don't understand. And yet - It's such a right confusion, so absolutely fucking difficult and yet when you let it go, so simply right.

Do I sound like a fool?

See also the strange (and probably more lovable) 49-second marvel called "Gold July".

There is a plethora of Brendan Reed music (and friends' music) at whitewavewhitewave. He also presents new songs and opaque blog-thoughts at the main nocarsgo site. Email him to buy things - they come in magic boxes, cardboard chests of art and spirit. Do email him. He is kind.

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Jacob Faurholt & Sweetie Pie Wilbur - "Let Them Go". Faurholt is one of these singers that feels like he needs to sound like he's dying in order to express his unhappiness. Oh, how emo, how old-school Bright Eyes. But in spite of this drama there's a majesty in the plain acoustic guitar, here, the creaking folk plinks and strums. In the introduction of strings. In the Grizzly Bear squint and Sparklehorse scope. And more than anything, the reason I have posted this song is its ending. It's an ending that almost knocked me down, that made me lift my eyes to heaven when I first heard it.

At first I thought the sound was a hiss, a kiss, a whisper in my ear. I thought it was something someone was saying to me. And then kettle drums. But no, no! Haha, how mistaken. No the "sound", the ending, is a rocket. It's firecrackers. It's fireworks. It's explosions in the sky. It could go on for hours and I would be happy to hear it.

[buy / more info]

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It is suggested that Gramo-friends consider tuning in to Tiny Showcase at around 9pm EST tonight, for this week's print may be of particular interest to those who like the things we do. (And I have a feeling it will sell out.) Subscribe to their mailing list if you require more advance hints. :)

Things that are awesome: Tofu Hut with The Chips' "Rubber Biscuit"; Tuwa's pointer to an utterly fantastic Tom Waits b-side; Bruce Springsteen's version of "Mrs McGrath" from his new Seeger album; Kagan McLeod's poster of the history of rap.

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if you are reading this, snf: oh happy b.