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Fiery Furnaces - "Keep Me In The Dark"

She was running late and took a cab to work in her pink ruffled dress. "Where you headed?" "The Apollo." "Fancy. Meetin' a date?" "I work there. I'm a singer." "Fancy."

She played with her wallet, waiting to pay. She watched the fare go up, trying to guess. They passed Dovercourt, and Apple Grove, and Lacette, and turned on Havenhurst. As they rounded the corner she whipped her head back to see someone they had passed. "Stop, please! Stop stop!" He heaved the cab to a stop, annoyed. She flung two fives in the front seat like confetti and leapt out.

"David!" she was running, and thought, I shouldn't run, what will he think. They talked easily and with smiles, and she carried shoes in her hand, as they walked together to the Apollo.

Months pass.

On the night David left, she almost couldn't make it in to work. "You must go," he had said, "sing a song for me." She had cried, had embarrassed herself in front of the entire lineup. She remembered watching the steamship leave and thinking I'm watching him leave on a steamship, as she sang "I Dream of Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair", slowly, to a spare crowd.

Eleanor Friedberger - "Keep Me In The Dark"

She sang "Pack Up Your Troubles (In Your Ol' Kit Bag)" and brought the house down. She got down off the stage and went straight to the bathroom, where a woman was crying in the stall next to her. She went out the back for a smoke, and there was a mean old dog chained to a post outside the kitchen of a nearby restaurant. There weren't any stars in the sky save a couple little specks. She went home and speed-dialed 'Frank'. "I had a great show tonight, I killed it." "Beautiful, baby." She held the phone with her shoulder and slipped off her pink ruffled dress.

Months pass.

It was pressing 11 on a Saturday; the home stretch. She was in the middle of "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral" when Frank walked in. Oh, Christ, Hell, Dammit. Why does that sonofabitch have to be so damn good-looking? She twirled the microphone cord in her hand and smirked like nothing was wrong. Frank stayed for one drink and left.

Matthew Friedberger - "Keep Me In The Dark"

In a pink ruffled dress, rumpled and folded beneath her, her 3am make-up was streaked and her necklace askance. Her drink was so old it had stopped sweating, she clinked her ring against the glass. A big hand shoved a note in front of her face. It was Stooley, the bartender. She looked up. The note said, "ice ain't a meal", and she crumpled the paper and looked around. A shady figure in the back, near the bar slots. She got up and went over. Together they stumbled home and sang songs in the hot night.

Months pass.

She ran down the street in one high heel, throwing an undershirt at the back of Carlos' car. "Take your fuckin' shit!" The brown Impala limped away, chugging gas, and she limped home, her ankle twisted and tears galore. She took a sullen shower and sang a soft song. She put on the pink ruffled dress and went to work.

[Buy I'm Going Away]
[Buy Take Me Round Again]

(image)

Carey Mercer is the lead singer of Frog Eyes, who release their new (and immensely beautiful) record today. It's called Paul's Tomb: A Triumph and it's currently my favourite release of the year. I wrote about Flower In A Glove, and now Lear in Love is also available to sample.

Carey Mercer is the lead singer of Frog Eyes, a band so special to me I lack the words to convince you. So I will let his words convince you.
Today, a poem from Carey Mercer.

Kraftwerk - "Radioaktivität"
Charles Mingus - "Flowers for a Lady"

Nuclear bombs do not annihilate the earth,
they destroy cities.  The destruction of a city
is just

Horrible.

All of our popular imagination on the subject
shows not the destruction of a filthy, mud-covered
unpaved Main Street,
Animal feed stores and the only Dairy Queen
In mock-supplication before the Sun's malevolent prince:
No, 
Not that,

But the instantaneous de-constitution 
of the imperial and seemingly indestructible
blocks of granite and marble of the grand Carnegie libraries,
the sophisticate's refuge: the arch-venerable first edition
book store, 

Folios made of willow
 smelling of branch and yearning for the fire, 
(better the nuclear fire than the pedant's slobbery digits)

The homeless colonies emerge from their day-nocturnes, then
Behold the sun,
Scurry to nowhere
As they have always done anyways

That other well-dressed man has bought Salami and mushroom-infused cheese
from a distant mountain,
and now drops it in fear,

Every secret-unmarked-door that brings country people to its gates
and yields 
a crushing absence of secrets,
buckles in the heat, the paint moves as weeds move in a current and then 
it all moves along

Shit,
Everything--the soft inequality, the hard inequality, the beautiful music that emanates out of sadness, the horn of the bridge, the snare over the ridge,
the soft patter of the cymbal as a kind of insistent
symbol,
Everything gone

It's the city that sinks down into a molten remembrance
this sinking occurs in our secret imagination 
having secretly imagined it and dreamt it so often
from 12 years old to now,
sometimes still turning on the radio and expecting to hear 
dread announcement of
dire static

It is impossible to describe 
not using stock images: 

Nuclear War 
Radioactivity,
Flowers for a Lady

--

For more of Carey's writing, he has an often haunting, often hilarious blog Clouds of Evil

(Previous guest-blogs: White Hinterland, Bear in Heaven, artist Michael Krueger, artist Amber Albrecht, The Whiskers, Silver Jews, artist Ariel Kitch, artist Aaron Sewards, artist Corinne Chaufour, "Jean Baudrillard", artist Danny Zabbal, artist Irina Troitskaya, artist Eleanor Meredith, artist Keith Greiman, artist Matthew Feyld, The Weakerthans, Parenthetical Girls, artist Daria Tessler, Clem Snide, Marcello Carlin, artist Johnnie Cluney, Beirut, Jonathan Lethem, Arcade Fire, Al Kratina, Eugene Mirman, artist Dave Bailey, Agent Simple, artist Keith Andrew Shore, Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, artist Kit Malo with Alden Penner (The Unicorns) 1 2, artist Rachell Sumpter, artist Katy Horan 1 2, David Barclay (The Diskettes), artist Drew Heffron, Carl Wilson, artist Tim Moore, Page France, Devin Davis, Okkervil River, Grizzly Bear, Hello Saferide, Damon & Naomi, Brian Michael Roff, producer Howard Bilerman. There are many more to come.)

Phil Ochs - "I Ain't Marchin' Anymore"

Phil Ochs makes a speech before this song. He seems to be trying to wake up his guitar, like some old dog, hungover and sad, before he can start. So he stares at his shoes and lets these words bubble out of him and steam off his head, and string together and he means it. He says it like he's said it a thousand times before and like he can't imagine there's anything left to say that's worth a damn. But what he says is so perfectly composed, such tender hatred, and filled with such shrugging despair, it's a far better song than the song he's waiting for his old dog to play. The song is like an extended crescendo, a 3-minute musical bow for that speech.

[Buy used (what? they're not making these still?)]

(photos by Bernard Voïta)

Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou - "Tenkou! Why Feel Sorry?"

"Tenkou!" said the paper to the pen, "Why feel sorry?" The pen was wilted, limp in the afternoon sun. "I am full of a great nothing," replied Tenkou, the pen. The paper, whose name was Gita, sat up straight and beamed the sun wrinkly off her chest, "That cannot be true," she said. "Yes, it's true," said Tenkou, and he retreated to the shadow made by the edge of the window. "Show me," said Gita, the blank paper, "show me your great nothing." "Don't be silly," said Tenkou, "I say I have nothing and so showing you will only embarrass me." Gita was silent and rested back down on the writing desk. The sun was so hot on her face. The two sat like that for some time. Tenkou, the pen, staring sullen at the wall, and Gita, the paper, lying on her back, eyes closed, in the sun. Soon, she began to hum a tune and smile. "Tell me the story, Tenkou," and Tenkou squirmed at this beginning, "of when you beat your brother in the race to the pen jar, and he leaked all over himself." Tenkou clenched his jaw, chewed down firmly on his sadness, but could not hold it with all his will. He could not help but let a smile form at the sides of his mouth. That was indeed a funny story.

[Buy]

(thanks We Can Build You and Boing Boing)

Crystal Castles - "Doe Deer"

This is what you find under wallpaper. This is horrific and rotten. This needs to be surgically removed. This is metastatic, it's everywhere, and no one saw it move. It's terrifying, I'm terrified. [Buy]

Broken Social Scene - "All to All"

Of the songs made for Jetta commercials and teen drama montages, and these are compliments backhanded though they may be, this is probably my favourite. It expresses a certain kind of emotional pulse that is reserved for the sexy rejected. Pretty and dumped. The hot shunted. The theme song for "no longer listed as 'in a relationship'". Changing your profile pic to something that isn't your face so no one can see you cry. [Pre-Order]

(image source)

--

Dear readers,

As you know, I produced a web series last year called The Bitter End with some help from you. We received much critical acclaim and resounding positive feedback. We've had a few exciting opportunities as a result, so now I'm writing for one final push for promotion. Please, if you haven't watched the show, check it out. If you like it, become a "fan" on facebook, tell a friend about it, link to it, or if you're connected with the media, get in touch. The next few weeks are very important for us, and we need to boost viewership of the show as much as possible. Thanks so much, and thanks to all those who have supported the show thus far. It means a lot to us, and to me.

Rolling Stones - "No Expectations"

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" asked Kevin, his hair now long and dangling silly in front of his eyes, wagging at his chin. He sat with his backpack awkwardly still on his back, at the table with his small coffee. He just didn't take it off when he sat down and now he felt weird about it.

Abby sat across from him, the sun beaming off her face like an angel, a messy-haired angel. She had to squint and sometimes hold her hand in the way of the sun, it was so bright. The other hand played absently with the hole in the knee of her jeans, her bike helmet beside her. "No," she said, smiling that unavoidable pain-smile. "Not anymore."

"Oh. Bummer," he said, looking down. Everything was a bummer to Kevin. Either a bummer or amazing. She let the sun hit her eyes for a while so she didn't have to look at him. He reminded her of being a nag. She was about to ask him about school, something she knew he would never do, but stopped herself in her throat, don't be a nag.

"What happened? Was it like our break-up?" he said, smirking and shifting his weight.

He didn't cheat on me if that's what you're asking. "No." Abby looked over at a girl doing her homework; looked like business work, spreadsheets and powerpoint. "It was just getting too...I didn't really like who I was becoming. I was becoming, sort of, dependent."

Kevin crossed his legs at the thigh, "Has it been long? Are you okay?"

At this question, Abby remembered why she liked Kevin. The way he asked "are you okay?" was always full of genuine concern, and it made her glow a bit inside, a true connection. "I'm doing great, Kevin. School is good, my nieces are wonderful, and my summer was totally well-spent, I have no regrets about anything. It just wasn't right for me."

Kevin threw the hair out of his face and grinned with his big teeth, "Amazing."

Supertramp - "Two of Us"

If you're watching this tape, or this DVD or whatever they made of this, then I've been killed in action or captured by the enemy. I hope I died nobly, I know Christ Jesus will be watching over me and avenge my death. I want to speak to you as your, well, former I guess, leader and as your father and as your friend. You're not like regular people. You're not some skinhead kicking in some woman's stomach or some rat-faced money-grubbing politician creep, you're not some working drone drugged by unemployment checks into thinking the government is there to protect you, that they're driving the ship, that everything will be all right. No, you're thinking for yourself. And that's a rare quality. It's Jesus Christ His-fucking-self who said "think for thyself and question all ye see before ye". And you are doing that. You are fighting. And if I have died or if I have been captured, then the fight must go on, and stronger still. Christ needs to know that someone has understood Him. Fight with equipment and with gear, fight the oppression and the greed of the power structure, fight faithlessness and moral nothingness, fight for the true word of the Christ King and bring His vision of the world into being. Lock and load.

--

In the sky over a green field, floats a hot air balloon, with Abby's mother and father inside. They eat strawberries and drink half-wine and talk about the air and sit in silence smiling out at the air. They married young and found their step and had their children and raised their children and left their home and found their life and shared their life and were happy.

[Buy Beggars Banquet]
[Buy Crisis? What Crisis?]

Harry Nilsson - "Everything is Food (demo)"

Abby and Miguel went to Abby's aunt and uncle's for a barbecue. It was mid-July and hot and dry and the sun-bleached deck was scorching Abby's feet through her socks. She went from one foot to the other. She was getting a bit dizzy from it.

"Miguel. That's Spanish, right?" said Abby's uncle Todd, who was grilling Boston chicken hams and a small foil ball of veggies and potatoes. "I only know a bit of Spanish," he said, his sunglasses reflecting Abby and Miguel back at them, their faces looked cartoonishly stretched. "Dos cerveza, por favor," and he laughed heavily in his belly. Abby was hypnotized by the grilling of the food, the smoke and sizzle, and from hopping back and forth from foot to foot, that she didn't notice Miguel looking at her for a reaction to that.

In the living room, through the open sliding door, CNN was blaring. A straight-backed short-haired Christian man sat next to a hunched plaid-shirt-bowtie liberal "--well they shouldn't have been focusing so much on the flu shots, it wasn't nearly the epidemic they said it was, what they should have been doing was inoculating people for Christianity--" the plaid-shirt-bowtie man hunched his shoulders further, his thick glasses obscuring his eyes looking somewhere out of frame, "--Christianity is a far bigger and more deadly epidemic these days--" suddenly the Christian panelist sitting beside him lunged with a growl and punched the man in the face.

"Ho, shit, Abby!" called out a voice from inside, "come see this!" It was Abby's cousin Mark, who was back living at his parents' house, he often joked 'because of the cable'. Abby sort of fell over Miguel a bit as they went inside, hitting the air conditioning like some kind of forcefield.

"That guy just punched that other guy!" but by the time they were inside, it was just the backs of security guards crowding the frame. But Abby had heard everything from outside, she was drawn to it, and she became overwhelmed. She started crying softly into Miguel's chest, who looked around to see if anyone was noticing this. I didn't do anything! was the first thing he could think of to say.

They left before dinner and took some veggies with them. As they drove home, they passed a little white church on the side of the road. And without speaking, Miguel pulled quickly off into the dirt lot beside. They both got out of the car and Abby went inside. They stayed for hours, until it was dark, and above the thick and piercing sound of the crickets, Miguel could hear moaning coming from inside. He sat quietly, speechless, expressionless, and played with the grass like a little boy.

Parenthetical Girls - "Someone Else's Muse"

[info on the Popeye demos]
[Buy Privilege pt. 1 (limited run of 500)]

[book software by Megazine]