Archives : all posts by Dan

Thee Oh Sees - "Corrupted Coffin"

In the cold storage cellar of a mansion in the Catskills, a letter was found in the distinctive hand of legendary disc jockey Wolfman Jack. His large, swooping bottom curves and his upright, almost teetering long-risers were indicative of his script but could have been easily forged. It was the subtle cinching of his bridled consonants and the jaunty squiggle on his capital H's that truly sealed the decision that the letter was indeed from Mr. Jack to his then-girlfriend Melissa (who Jack referred to as 'Wolfwoman'). And it is with a great deal of pride stirred primly with a modicum of dread that I present to you today the letter in its entirety, for better or for worse.

Dearest Wolfwoman,

I hope you fine lookin thing you are alright tonight. I hope you are afeelin fine and you are afeelin great. I hope those fine young thighs are creamy as ever, I hope those luscious lips are as tasty as ever, I hope you are ahoppin and aboppin all over this fine city at night tonight. I hope youre nothing like me tonight. Because you see, Wolfwoman, I am in the pits tonight. How do I say this without sounding completely crazy? Without you awalkin out on me and never ever ever lookin back? But I just got to say it, fine lady, if we are ever to be married by a preacher in a chapel. If we are ever to swear our burnin love to each other for all time and all the rest of our lives to each other, I just have to tell ya. And there's no way to tell ya better than just havin out with it because I need to. I am a real werewolf. That is to say, sweet pretty young thing, on certain nights I become a werewolf, in body and mind. My back arches like the arch under which we'll be wed, my teeth grow like my love grows for you, my eyes go yellow like the headlights of a 57 chevy. Cherry chrome. I love you, Wolfwoman, and please don't hate your man for what he's told you. I've killed. I'll kill again. But I'm sorry, and I have some methods of control. But I need you to trust me, and I need you to love me whatever the cost. And let's stay cool, little kitten, cause youre my best girl and I know I'd just flip my lid if you said you'd never stay.

All my lovin, Jack.

[ink drawing of slash marks as a kind of signature]

Kids on a Crime Spree - "I Don't Want to Call You Baby, Baby"

[Buy Castlemania]
[Pre-Order We Love You So Bad]

(image via Françoise Gamma)

Wild Beasts - "Invisible"

"My brother's gonna get you," shouted spraying through a bloody lip and embarrassed tears. "He's trained in Judo, you fuckin creep. JUDO!!" said half running, jeans twisted and hugging up too high, making everything tight and not right. Grass scraped onto surfaces normally ungrassed. Kelley tripped on his own shoes on the way home, while sending an urgent text message. The shoes were bought a size too big so that there was room for growing, but once he grew into them it would be time for new shoes anyway, and they would most likely be a size too big. Kelley went straight to his room and got on the phone. He called (514) HIM-BUTT, and got the voicemail, "Hey, Derek Cannon--" "Derek it's Kelley, answer your phone or text me back!" After refusing dinner and picking at his lip in the mirror, purposely not washing blood off his face, Kelley explained the whole thing to Derek. "Hmm, that's pretty rough." Kelley just stared, his hair still stranding with grass. "That's all you can say?" "What do you want me to say?" "What I want is for you to go over there and beat the fucking fuck out of him, Derek!"

Derek was indeed trained in Judo. When he was 9 he saw a Judo demonstration at the Vars Fair, done by some fellow fourth-graders and some older kids. It was exciting: white uniforms, throwing people over your shoulder, hanging out with older kids. So Derek signed up, got the uniform and went for three months from April to June. But once school ended for the year the family went on vacation to Yarrow Beach for a couple weeks, then spent two weekends at the Peters (friends of Derek and Kelley's parents) and then a typing course in August, by the time there was a free moment for Judo, he just wasn't that into it anymore. But for some reason, for the past 5 years since then, whenever he was introduced by his parents, they would say "This is our son Derek", and it took about two seconds for them to say "he's a Judo master!" and make a hand chop. The hand chop was not even used in Judo, that was more like Karate, so it was embarrassing for many reasons. But mostly because it was this outdated summation of his character that he somehow couldn't shake. He felt as if he were wearing the Judo outfit every time this happened. But the Judo outfit from when he was 9, all shrunken and small and kiddish. He hated it, and he wished no one would ever talk about it again. "Beat the fuck out of him? Kelley, I..." He trailed off.

"You're a Judo master, Derek!! DO SOMETHING!"

Derek's face went quiet. He looked at the floor, little blood spots on the carpet from Kelley's own blood. "After Mom and Dad go to bed." Kelley lay in his bed fully-clothed and staring at the ceiling. The lights from the garden shined up into his window, and made the same shadows every night. When they went off, that was the timer, that meant it must be the middle of the night. Click. They met in the hallway. "Why are you dressed?" "I'm coming too." "No you're not, you're staying here. This can't come back to you." Kelley saw the seriousness in Derek's face. He stopped saying things and just listened. "You're gonna stay here and keep your phone plugged in. I don't want it going dead." Derek went down to the mud room, where the laundry machine was, and went in the closet. He took out his hockey stick. Then he went under the laundry sink for the toolbox, and put a hammer through the back of his belt. He went quietly out the door, as it reflexed with a tiny beep-beep for security. Kelley watched out the front window for what felt like forever. He thought about professional wrestling, and being lost on the ocean, and how blood cracks off like dust when it dries.

[Album stream, in anticipation of release next Tuesday]

The Bugs - "Theme from 'Do Raha'"
Richard Buckner - "Traitor"
Brutal Knights - "Government is Asshole"

Connie ran naked through the dark, wet woods at night. She ran panting, bloodied, and naked. Lit shiny by the moonlight. If this were the only possible world, then it must be the best, and also the worst. Branches nicked her naked flesh and drew more blood. The whites of her eyes gleamed like fireflies, her teeth like ripples catching light. If something is chasing me, it will eventually catch up to me, and running is pointless. Twigs snapped under her bare feet. If nothing is chasing me, then running is also pointless, as I am safe. As the branches got denser, the going got rougher. And still I am running. Running is the only thing that makes me feel like I have any control at all. A rusty can, discarded from some party or some hunter years before, sliced her foot open, and Connie began to limp, still running, still bleeding. So it is true that something is both chasing me and not chasing me, because I am ignoring both possibilities. The nicks and bruises, stopped up beating and clotted with fear, began to look like animal print. It seems clear to me now that my running has ceased the existence of any world whatever, since all possible states of affairs have no effect on my behaviour. Connie stopped and rested a moment, her hand upon a tree. But her heartbeat through her fingers made the tree feel alive, a predator, and she continued running. This is not the best possible world nor the worst possible world, it is no world at all, it is the absence of a world. It is the most boring Genesis, a revelation that in fact no work has yet been done at all; no compass, no conquest, no trade.

[Pakistan: Folk and Pop Instrumentals 66-76 available from Sublime Frequencies]
[Buckner's Our Blood due out in August]
[Brutal Knights' Feast of Shame is 8.00]

Tune-Yards - "Powa"

She walks, split skirt with drum skin. Hiked-up smirkways and trodded curls. Hands grasp, weightshiftingly pulled, a tidy swing. With purely magnetic horizontation, stretched livingly lain. Bent in cratered sexography, perpetually libidoing, breathing, given give-ins and a whole beating, succumbersome mid. Illiterate gasping, monogrammed clasping, anonymous help.

This song is pure, heavy, vital. It is, right now, the very best. [Buy from Rough Trade]

Ponytail - "Music Tunes"

"a day on the lake" is not the same as "stranded in the middle of the lake"

A lake so big there are places where the horizon is all water. This is one of those places. The water shimmers black and smooth. From below it sparkles and rises to meet you. To sit floating on the border where the world changes from air to water is not comfortable. Even with no one around it's easy to feel watched. As if something were waiting to catch a mistake, something to exploit, a reason to tip. But that reason never comes. For a year or longer the worlds of air and water sit locked in a stalemate, undecided over who will get to kill me. [Buy]

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The new video for Titus Andronicus' "No Future Part Three: Escape From No Future" directed by Tom Scharpling. Scharpling has directed The New Pornographers' "Moves" also this year, and Ted Leo's "Bottled In Cork" last year. No Future is, I think, Scharpling's best video work so far. Not just because it's beautiful and sincere and totally right-on nostalgic, but because it doesn't have stars in it. The first two videos are full of comedy people who make the videos necessarily pretty enjoyable, but they also can't be divorced from their "star" quality. In "No Future" we see the band on their own, exploring an idea, namely showing New Jersey in a new light, and it's a much more self-sufficient and personal experience. Love shines through in this video, and it gave me chills.

Also: Emma Healey, who guested last week, was just in studio for this week's Best Show on WFMU. Hear her, and a not terrible call from me at 1:27:30, here.

(photo source unknown, via We Can Build You)

--

and Kickstarter hit a milestone this week: 2 years, 20 000 projects, and 40$ million in actual collected money. Pretty mind-blowing. I was about to point you to a nice project started by Jumbling Towers for help with their video of Ramifications of an Exciting Spouse, but cheerily, they've already made their goal.

Litrugy - "Generation"

In the most recent version of it, this is the music used in the trailer to sell the universe to potential invenstors. I will not describe the "bud-grows-into-full-tree" time-lapse footage, nor the condensed Crusades, nor the "shrinking-microchip-space-program" montage. It's a bit Mr. Brainwash, honestly. And if you die before the deal goes through, or if you die as a result of this deal going through, you won't get to share in the spoils. Which, I'm told, are going to be pretty sweet. Everyone gets their percentage of the percentage, and a No. 2 pencil with your name engraved into it. [Pre-Order]

Paul McCartney - "Love is Strange"

"Hey, look" geese fly, expressionless, in a loose shape across the sky. Must be North. Henry stares straight up at them, his shoes twisting in the mud, and squints. He blinks into the sun, and he can see some of the geese are missing feathers in their wings.

Henry is the first-born son. He is proud of this, it's a title that sounds like a prince or someone with a destiny. He is at the park with his babysitter, Carrie, who is carrying his little sister Darling, in her arms, in a pink swath. Henry's face is cold but his body underneath his jacket is hot, almost sweating.

"Do you know yet?" Henry grabs Carrie's hand and they head across the expansive field, soft with wet patches. "Know what?" Carrie knows exactly what, but says that anyway. "About your school? Did they call you?" A day last week, while they drank apple lemonade and cut construction paper shapes, Carrie had told Henry that she was waiting to hear from a very big school. She wanted to go there and they just needed to let her in. Henry did not want her to go, but also wanted her to be happy. He has asked her every day since whether she knows.

"No, they haven't called," says Carrie, the dangly ends of her dangly scarf have little shiny bits in them, and she sparkles when she walks. "Is it hard to get in?" Henry is sure he will have no problem getting in, he is the first-born son, but not everyone is so lucky. "I don't quite know," she says, her arm holding Darling getting weak, "I suppose if I don't get in, then I'll say it was hard to get in."

Henry thinks about the geese, expressionless. "I hope you don't get in," he says, knowing that she might think that was mean. Henry doesn't care; as first-born son he is entitled to his feelings.

[from the Soily mix, at Elasticheart, via Jez Burrows]
[or buy the 1 vinyl copy left for 602.72$CAD]

--

As Sean said, thanks to Emma and Chandler for taking up the reins for me while I was away. I'm so glad you liked what they brought.

--

Elsewhere: Sean Dunne got in touch with me this morning about a new film he made. It's a gorgeous little doc about a country singer turned marathon runner. It's called Stray Dawg, and I recommend it highly.

Orchestre Poly-Rhythmo - "Ma Vie"

How many notes did you know when you were a child? How many notes do you know now that you are old? How many of them do you play? You are difficult to understand. I don't mean speaking, I understand the things you say, you say you love me and I believe you. But I mean your body. What are the codes, where is it written, the map to understand your body? What do the different parts mean? What does it mean when they move? What does it mean when you look at something but point at something else? What does it mean when you walk with one foot on the sidewalk and one in the road? What does it mean when you press fruit, when you close your eyes to taste something, when you kiss at yourself in the mirror? I think it is perhaps better not to look for meaning in your body, for that is like looking for meaning in the way a bird flies, or the way a dog kicks up dust when it walks on dirt roads. Better to look instead at what is there, as an empty thing and not a thing that is meant as a gift to me. But this can be tiring, as I would like some things that are meant only for me. But there is nothing in the world that is mine or has ever been mine. Not my house, my clothes, my skin, or the skin of my children. This feels like the truth, and even though it is tiring, it makes me happy. Every time I see the way, I see that it is very far.

[Pre-Order]

--

I will be taking a little break starting next week. But I will have great people coming in to take my place, like music writer Chandler Levack and fiction writer Emma Healey.

Bill Callahan - "Riding for the Feeling"

"You get one thing, don't ask for more than one thing, that's the deal." Ham and his sister Ellie, Ham 'n Ellie, walked almost (but not quite) hand-in-hand to Muscles' house. Muscles lived on Pape by the poplar. On Pape, by the poplar. Saggy tree and saggy christmas lights, year round sagging in the front-yard tree. Like decorations so old they're new again, like daylight fireworks, that was Muscles. Muscles wore the same blue jeans, the same jean jacket since Ham and Ellie were little kids. Now they were 14 and 13, and they wanted one thing each. Ham knocked on the door, "Hey, Muss!" Ham liked pounding on the door, it felt good to treat something the way it was meant to be treated, like pounding on a door with your full fist. Muscles came out and he laughed and he picked up Ham by the waist, even though Ham was almost heavier than Muscles. He high-fived Ellie, because he didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. Girls at that age don't generally like to be shaken and jostled. Not like when girls are 11, they're fun kids then, you can pick 'em up and twirl 'em over your head like a maple seed, like a helicopter seed. But 13, best leave them alone. "What do you rascals want?" Muscles talked loud, and the neighbours didn't all like him. Ham looked around, a bit nervous, and lowered his voice, "Can I have a beer?" Muscles lowered his voice in fake secrecy, "One beer," like a waiter taking orders, and pointed to Ellie who said, "Some pot."

Ham was embarrassed. Asking for pot from Muscles was like seeing one of those "please take one!" bowls on Hallowe'en and just dumping the whole bowl in your bag. He should have asked her what she wanted before they got there to avoid this situation. "Ellie!" he moaned, looking at his sneakers. "What?" she said, "It's one thing!" But Muscles took it in stride, "Naw, naw, it's cool, man. It's cool. You want a bit of pot? I don't know what I can do about that, but come on in and we'll see what's up." They went inside and saw Muscles' familiar Creed poster and Godfather quote poster, and sat meekly on his extended sofa, with TLC blaring on his now-aged projection TV. His coffee table was dirty in the coolest way possible. Dated men's magazines, fishing magazines, a couple take-out boxes, an ashtray, a spoon with old ice cream on it, all the stuff Ham was planning on doing as soon as he lived by himself. Muscles came back in the room with a Lucky Lager and a little baggie, "Presto!" They knew from other kids that the rule was if you were going to smoke pot, you had to do it 'on the premises' because Muscles had some legal loopholes that he was working. So they all sat together and enjoyed a show about a family of little people and their average-height children, while smoking a joint together. Ellie had a smug look on her face, like see? you get pot AND beer thanks to ME. But Ham was so happy he forgave this smugness. And in the June afternoon, they walked home almost (but never actually) hand-in-hand back to their house, talking about ways to make their clothes smell better and sharing a pack of gum.

[available today at Drag City]

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Happy Birthday to my father.