There is a 17-year-old still within me that was brought to life on Saturday, when I saw Les Savy Fav in Toronto. Their monstrous brutality, their charming mischief, and their boundless energy. The show began by a proclamation of "we are going to defile this space!" which garnered from me a mere smug grin. But they were right, we did. I am not a fan of Les Savy Fav, I recognized not a single song, but I danced like I did. Covered in beer, barely able to breathe, I thought to myself, "I'm 27 years old, but they're even older." The show was vivisected, I couldn't even see the lead singer by the time the lights came on, but that was all the better. No bursting crescendo, no end page to the story where I acted like a teenager for one night. [Buy, or even better, see them live before you die (Newton Barge Park in Brooklyn on Sunday)]
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RATTAIL SHOW IN BROOKLYN
People have been writing me about RatTail since I started posting them over a year ago (and since: 1, 2). Recently a young woman named Miela Siy contacted me, she's now helping them with their first Brooklyn show, and I'm so happy for it.
RatTail's show in Brooklyn will be this Friday June 25th at 7pm at 255 McKibben St. #103 (off the Montrose stop on the L). Also playing are Steel Phantoms, Strange Shapes, and Rapdragons. I'm told there will be refreshments.
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SEAN DUNNE DONE IT AGAIN
Sean Dunne has 4 lovely little documentaries to his credit. The first about an archivist losing his collection, the second about a man living in his van, the third about a veteran, and the newest about Rocky Salemmo, "The Bowler". They are gorgeous and very well made, they deserve attention, praise, and that team needs to be put on a bigger project. They are ready.
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FIERY FURNACES TONIGHT
at Cabaret Mile-End (old Kola Note) join me (say hi!).
I once passed up the chance to see Les Savy Fav on Halloween so I could bail on a party happening in my own flat to go see the new James Bond, kitted out as Munch's Scream. I really hope they make it back again soon, there's a balance to be redressed...
I like how you picked my favorite Les Savy Fav track out of my favorite Les Savy Fav album. The only song that comes near "Equestrian" in indie angst is Future Of the Left's "Arming Eritrea".
In the century before this one, before the one you're in now, there took place a perfectly two-sided event. An event of epic proportions and of minor importance, of utter publicity and of complete privacy, of legend and of rumour.
A dignitary by the name of Douglas Millfield Ronce was something of a political gadabout. He was much enamoured with the pleasures of politics; the speech-making, the assurance-giving, the gladhanding. Although he had very little actual power, he liked seeing hope in people's eyes, as if he were an angel to them, bestowing upon them the gift of Heaven's promise. And combined with that, he was also secretly obsessed with the dark arts. He would tell his aides and confidantes that he was merely "seeking out all the aspects of Christianity", and to do that he must wade heavily in the waters of the Satanic realm.
One of his Dark Prophets, for he had many, often as much as ten in his employ, told him one day of the "Earth Mother Achilles". As all massive beasts, the Earth was in possession of a single, tiny weak point. A place that, when ruptured, would completely reverse the volumes of evil and good in the world. All that was good would be sucked into Earth's new orifice, and be replaced by a spewing evil. Ronce, now obsessed with this legend, decided to see if it were true.
He hired his idiot nephew Harlibut, an awkward young man of poor stature and worse manners. So ugly he could never take a wife, and too gnarled for any hard labour, Harlibut was something of a missed beat, like a spark made by a flint that doesn't catch; forgettable, useless, and may just as well never existed. A perfect candidate for Ronce's dark plan. He would send Harlibut to the bottom of the Great Sea, in a suit made of iron, to cut the Earth Mother Achilles, while he filibustered a distraction in the state Parliament. And this, dear reader, was the two-sided event of such note.
On the morning of June 14th of last century, Douglas Millfield Ronce began his speech while at that exact same moment, Harlibut was being fitted into an iron suit, in the hard morning shadows of a shaded dock.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, I have something I wish to say. For many a year now it has been known that the biggest and most change-worthy problem in our fair society is the proliferation and supportation and encourage-ation of collection thieves. I'm talking specifically about those scoundrels, those no-goods, those contra-swells that pilfer change out of the collection basket while they are passing it on down the row at Church on our fair Sunday masses at our fair Sunday churches. Now, gentlemen, this has got to stop..."
Harlibut walked along the bottom of the Great Sea, the map of his destination now burned into his memory, with an ease that surprised even himself. It was if he were born to find the Earth Mother Achilles, he was moving with grace and aplomb, two things normally never attributed to Harlibut. He felt a crooked stretching of his mouth, a twisting in his bent neck, a pull on his decrepit little soul. He was truly happy. Dark dust kicked up behind him as he belted down the slope of the floor of the Great Sea.
"...and another thing, taxes my goodness, taxes are the very thing this town needs to rid itself of in order to become truly one of the great cities of the world. No great city in the world has taxes, at least to my knowledge. Taxation is a primitive, backwards, step-downy way to live, it's uncivilized and I can no longer support it any longer. Upon completion of my point I will suggest to my colleagues who support my position to...rise up..."
Ronce was sweating. An 82-minute speech thus far, he looked across the room at a man with dark eyes. The man shook his head slowly.
"...But I am not completed, not yet, not yet at all gentlemen, for I have just begun to outline my position on the relationship between state and property. I believe property to be independent of the state and should be available to any man cunning enough to lay down his foot upon it..."
Just then, deep below the calm surface of the Great Sea, the young man named Harlibut found the soft fleshy endpoint of his journey. It was a white supple crevice in the sea floor, and he removed the sacred knife from its sheath and prepared to plunge. But suddenly, in the peace of the dark marine bottom, Harlibut felt sorry for the Earth Mother Achilles. It was a helpless and easy target, it had done nothing to deserve this treatment. It was beautiful. And he was happy.
And he felt a stir.
A stir all but unfamiliar to him. The kind of stir he used to feel, years ago, when he would catch a glimpse of the laundry girl's calf while she gathered soiled clothes from the floor of his hospital room. The kind of stir reserved for dim light, like the dim light of this sea bottom, the soft white light of the Achilles. Harlibut began to remove the suit. Even though he somehow knew this would likely kill him, he removed the suit. And in the moments before he was crushed by the pressure, the drawn-out coldness of the deep sea, he made love, for the first time, to the Earth Mother Achilles.
"...if the Bible says no then I say no, gentlemen, for there is nothing the Bible says that I don't also say. And may I be totally clear when I say, walk with God always because God is like an iron suit, he will protect you and he will keep you, he will carry you and he will shelter you, he will show you the way, the truth, and the light."
Next Week: The Fiery Furnaces play Montreal. They are one of my favourite bands in history, they are consistently challenging, inventive, brilliant. I have written about them manymanytimes. Come see them with me, at Cabaret Mile-End (a new venue formerly known as Kola Note) next Tuesday June 22nd, 9:30, 16$. Tickets available online, or at Cheap Thrills, L'Oblique, Atom Heart, and Phonopolis.
Fiery Furnaces rule. Their Widow City was totally under-appreciated, though. That's my pick. What was really wrong with a track like "restorative bear"?
beautiful "Harlibut" story.. and johnny horton sounds like a writer himself- eerie, indeed.
by krather, Jun 19, 2010
Johnny Horton's popularity necessitated much touring and driving - often during early morning hours where he found himself sharing the roadways with many drunken drivers. He became so convinced that he would meet his maker due to an intoxicated driver that members of his band reported he would practice driving off the road defensively and preemptively in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable. On November 5, 1960, Horton was killed in a head-on collision with a college student named James Evan Davis on Highway 79 at Milano, Texas; all his practice maneuvers were for naught as the pair met on a bridge. His wife was made a widow for the second time being as he married Hank Williams' widow. Hank Williams died after his last performance at the Skyline Club in Austin Texas. Johnny Horton died after his last performance at the . . . wait for it . . . Skyline Club in Austin Texas. There is a grocery store where the Skyline once stood and sometimes I sit in the parking lot there and think of Billie Jean Jones-Williams-Horton's tears and the delicate intricacies of fate.
I enjoy reading what you write a lot.
In tired lazy clouds, as if heat-exhausted, sun-sick, the yellow dust kicks up in some salute to the flapping of a tattered flag. The land is tired, the trees are tired, too weak to stand, the people are tired, in their dusty leather boots. War is hell, on this day, only because it lasts so long. Only because it allows, nay demands, the accursed existence of some other heaven. Some clean and slippery-seated diner, where some fine young country girl is sipping on a milk, half in shadow, half in light. Her head is empty, save the song on the jukebox, an empty head the final paradise, the greatest gift of modern life.
I only recently started subscribing to the WNYC's Radiolab podcast. Sean's been a fan for a long time now, so I'm sorry if you all know about this already, but if you don't, go go go listen. On their most recent podcast they replayed an episode from early 2008, about Deception (catching liars, lying in nature, and self-deception) and the last act left me harrowed, hollowed, barely able to listen through the tears. Incredible stuff.
Also:
Born Ruffians have a nice little video for "What to Say" made by the very talented Jared Raab. There is also a good making-of. Jared produced and shot Nirvana the Band the Show, one of my favourite web series.
Cotton Jones rises from the ashes of Page France I think, but no analogies really. They’re too dusty country (therefore appealing). And as you put it, they’re so tired, that’s how they sound. The rattatatarrrr marching drums reminds me of Johnny Cash when he covered “Ballad of the Green Berets”. My favorite Cotton Jones Basket ride is from their 2009 record Paranoid Cocoon. It’s once again a very tired song called “Gotta Cheer Up”.
I’m downloading that podcast right now. Man there is too much data for one post. You’re acting like Largehearted Boy, Dan! Lol! Hockey song compensates all the lo-fi country blues you get from Cotton Jones. It’s neat how you keep the balance.
Is it just me, or do the female vocals on that Cotton Jones song sound just like Dolly Parton?
by Anne, Jun 15, 2010
I've recently fallen in love with Radiolab as well. The "Deception" episode is amazing. Have you listened to the "Afterlife" episode? Or "Laughter"? Also, the one on Wagner's Ring Cycle is wonderful.
I was reading an old copy of Trapped! that I found nestled deep away, and was enjoying it. It was an exciting tale of a lamplighter's son who, when asked to take over his father's position one night when he's ill, is suspected for a murderer and is chased by an unknown pursuer. The boy highjacks a boat to escape and is washed out to sea, and is trapped. But that's not the interesting bit. When I reached the middle of chapter 10, just as the boy eyes the shadowy boat in the harbour and decides to hop aboard and use his torch to burn the rope and make a quick escape, I turned the page to find a bookmark. With my name on it. Although I had no memory of this story, of holding this book, of feeling its pages or seeing its typeface, I had apparently been reading it at some point. Or some other version of me, perhaps at 12 or 13, I had become too scared for the boy in his predicament, I had given up on the book, shut it closed. But if I read it before, I must have liked it before, and it made me pleased to agree with some ghost of myself.
And it's this way I feel about Shotgun Jimmie. As if I used to be a fan, though I have never before heard his music, and am just returning to it, feeling already nostalgic and impressed with some younger self. [MySpace]
It's 3pm, perfectly sunny and warm and, the air is thick and sweet. The bell rings. First out the door, a kid runs onto the bus, and just sits there, tucked against the window, waiting for it to fill up. He takes out a notebook and starts writing, his glasses slipping down his nose, his back hunched over his knee.
Another stupid weekend at dad's. In his gungy apartment with the Rod Stewart poster and his secret porn. There better be something for breakfast there, not stupid chocolate bars anymore, I think I learned my lesson on that one. I don't wanna watch Carol Burnett and read those same 4 Archies. I don't want that stupid room with the floor mattress and the dusty windows. I don't want to smell onions the whole time. I never realized mom was like some kind of mask that dad would wear, or like a fancy suit that made him look so much better.
I love rediscovering things I used to love. Books are a much better fit for that than old tv shows that you return to and realize they weren't as funny as you originally thought. One's imagination ages much better.
You were there last year when Shotgun Jimmie hit Montreal. I saw you dancing effortlessly for yourself Dan. You were there. And I'm beginning to worry about you boy. I get a Shutter Island feeling when I read those lines.
Ület is the only city designed and built by a poet. Dmitri Straße was the nation's most beloved poet, and he was also a genius architect, and given license to design the entire city of Ület, which was to be a center of culture. In the early stages of planning, he had a unique and lovely idea for the city's design: each borough would be inspired by the different forms of poetry. In the north end of town was to be The Sonnet, a place of order and tradition, where the city's twin universities were to be located, the base of which would hold the city hall. To the east was to be Haiku, which would later be dubbed Hai"cool" by outsiders and locals alike, a hip area of cheaper living, where artists, immigrants, and bohemians could live inexpensively and get by with very little. In the south, past the Acrostic Gardens, and down the enormous Sestina Steps (Ület has one large slope across the middle of the city) was Canzone, the hub of industry and business. While Straße himself hated money, in fact he took no money for the commission of designing Ület, he paid respect to what he knew was the huge machine driving the development of the world, for better or worse, with The Epics, two 10-storey sentinel statues guarding the entrance to Canzone. The Roundel transit system, a spiral train that wound its way through all of Ület, would then take you to the west, to Ruba'i, which was intended, as Straße put it "as a transformative zone". It would be meant to respond to the needs of the city, as they arose, and would not be designated as one thing or another. It was where Straße lived, in a small brick-chimney house on the edge of the Sijo canal, with his daughter Amelia, a young but wildly successful ballerina. Ruba'i was the last area to be designed by Straße, and some critics at the time claimed he simply ran out of ideas. But no one made that claim after the accident, after everything changed.
Amelia Straße was a delightful young woman. The nation's most beloved rising star. She had performed on international stages for kings, queens, presidents and prime-ministers. Her dance was called by one journalist, "a dream that all of humanity is having at once." On the morning of April 4th, the day before Ület was to be unveiled to the world as Dmitri Straße's finest work, Amelia was found floating down the water in the Sijo, drowned in a tragic sleepwalking accident. And on that morning, from when the discovery was made until the next morning's unveiling, Dmitri Straße completely redesigned the city of Ület. He put huge x's through all the maps, he burned all the borough plans and destroyed his original notebooks. He sat hunched at the foot of The Epics, in the shade of their stone, and started again. There would be one central element to Ület, it would be called the Ode, and all things would exist in relation to it. The Ode would be the humming central nervous system of the city, it would be the place of his daughter's death. From his brick-chimney house, out the back steps, and the line down the canal to where her body was found, would encompass the shape and mystery of the Ode. Nothing could be built on the Ode, nothing could traverse the Ode (though you could go around it, you could not go over it, planes included) and the most peculiar rule: nothing could face the Ode. People could face the Ode, by all means, inadvertently depending on what distance they were from it, but everything else must face away. The doors and windows of buildings, the exit doors of the Roundel, all streets, parked cars, even mirrors, must all face away from the Ode. As he wrote in the last line of his unveiling speech, a speech taught now in history classes the world over, "no one should be forced to see the thing that changed us, it is only in looking away that we can truly know we are looking ahead."
Thanks to all who made my trip to Berlin absolutely unforgettable. From Sebastian (who releases the Berlin Songs compilations and runs festivals and shows) to Anne at Magnet, and Shotgun Jimmie and Dominique and Jane and Hendrik, thanks for showing me such a good time. Each of you have left me charmed, happy, and adventure-sated.
size: 2m x 1m
weight: 226kg
description: "Turbikenhaus"
estimated value: less than 1$
insured: 4m$
"Alright, what is this?"
"It's a vehicle. It's built to go incredible speeds, but I drive it at a slow cruise, in the hot hot sun, to pick up ladies. They love it, they called me 'hunny'."
"It's not a weapon?"
"It sure is. You bet it is."
"You can't bring a weapon into the country."
"Then I won't come in. I'll find another way in. Or I won't."
Your breath like grassy breeze, your stare like taut string. The clouds lap like sky waves against the back of your head, bursting behind your hair.
You make love like you're filling out a silly quiz. Each answer a play, a reaction, snickering with the pen in your mouth. Writing a bit in the margins, a strange drawing here and there, incomplete faces and shapes.
Suddenly, like blowing out a match, you disappear. But only your body; your clothes, your rings, your socks, your belt, your chipped nail polish, a bit of eyeshadow, your gold tooth, remain.
I will put it all in a small bag, take it home, and leave it by the front door. In case you ever return.
This is a daily sampler of really good songs. All tracks are posted out of love. Please go out and buy the records.
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Said the Gramophone launched in March 2003, and added songs in November of that year. It was one of the world's first mp3blogs.
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"And I shall watch the ferry-boats / and they'll get high on a bluer ocean / against tomorrow's sky / and I will never grow so old again."
about the authors
Sean Michaels is the founder of Said the Gramophone. He is a writer, critic and author of the theremin novel Us Conductors. Follow him on Twitter or reach him by email here. Click here to browse his posts.
Emma Healey writes poems and essays in Toronto. She joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. This is her website and email her here.
Jeff Miller is a Montreal-based writer and zinemaker. He is the author of Ghost Pine: All Stories True and a bunch of other stories. He joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. Say hello on Twitter or email.
Mitz Takahashi is originally from Osaka, Japan who now lives and works as a furniture designer/maker in Montreal. English is not his first language so please forgive his glamour grammar mistakes. He is trying. He joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. Reach him by email here.
Dan Beirne wrote regularly for Said the Gramophone from August 2004 to December 2014. He is an actor and writer living in Toronto. Any claim he makes about his life on here is probably untrue. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.
Jordan Himelfarb wrote for Said the Gramophone from November 2004 to March 2012. He lives in Toronto. He is an opinion editor at the Toronto Star. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.
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I once passed up the chance to see Les Savy Fav on Halloween so I could bail on a party happening in my own flat to go see the new James Bond, kitted out as Munch's Scream. I really hope they make it back again soon, there's a balance to be redressed...
I like how you picked my favorite Les Savy Fav track out of my favorite Les Savy Fav album. The only song that comes near "Equestrian" in indie angst is Future Of the Left's "Arming Eritrea".