Telefauna - "Under the Underground Water"
I see Telefauna performing this in the desert, with tons of unnecessary zoom-ins and candles (in the daytime!). Saharan nobility, they're oddly dressed for winter. Toques and wool coats and mitts. I also see them becoming completely and unbelievably famous in a foreign land for this song, and they just go to live there and perform, and we never see them in Montreal again. If only there were any "foreign lands" left to allow this; facebook has taught us that no one really disappears anymore, so we can rest assured we'll hear from Telefauna again. [MySpace (listen to "Some Of Your Love"!!)]
M.I.A. - "Hit That"
It's like meeting the parents of the last song. Not as young, but with a steadier hand and a sure aim. A lot of songs shoot at the spectral target of "making a room dance", often taking as many shots as possible in order to increase their chances of hitting something. But here, it feels like M.I.A. knows her target so well, she's shooting once, and with her eyes closed. And the refrain becomes a challenge: "boys, let me see you hit that". [MySpace (listen to "Bird Flu"!!)]
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Elsewhere: my co-review with Matthew Perpetua about Crazy Love is up at The Movie Binge.
Instructions: start the song. start the flash thingy. every time you hear the musical cue indicated by the text, press the button, and the next part of the interactive visual accompaniment will play. it's supposed to be fun!
Architecture in Helsinki - "Debbie"
[Buy old stuff]
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Elsewhere: I'm writing for The Movie Binge this summer. Last week, I helped review Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, this week, I'll be doing Crazy Love in tandem with Matthew Perpetua.
Maurice Ravel - "Bolero" [Buy]
Dear Son,
I hope this letter finds you well. As I write this, the air is clear and cold, like spring water. The broadbeaks and the sparrowlarks have returned to the tips of still-bare branches, and we're all a little better for it. And a little worse, mind, given the racket they make in the morning, and sometimes I fear they'll give us away to the enemy. The sky is still, like a lake at dawn, except for their chirping. This morning I ate my applesauce with my finger because yesterday even the clinking of the spoon against the tin would set off their nonsense. Nice, though, to look at. And the way the grass ripples like the earth were shivering at the thought of another summer. Terrain like you've never seen. Like home, only more like the home you see in your dreams: bright colours, rolling hills, white clay houses with thatched roofs. Thatched roofs, boy, what a century this is!
I've enclosed this picture of your mother and I, as we're no longer in safe enough territory for it to stay with me. Don't show it to her. Keep it for yourself, in your drawer, or throw it away. Think of it like that story I told you about when I was thirteen and met a girl from Braybush; a little golden secret, like a lone beetle or a pet ant. I'm not as young as I once was and the promises I've made add up to the equivalent of being put in stocks in the town square. But a happier man I could not be, son.
Ah, son, I long for the warm bright days of last August when we were all together, riding that automobile at the fair. I think I've figured out a way to bring automobiles to our feet, but I won't write it here, as they screen the letters. I'll say only that it will take a real man to maneuver this invention, so I know your knobbly-kneed friend won't be using it anytime soon. I like that young man, but I don't trust him, you see. If he were here right now, I wouldn't turn my back on him, that's sure. Not for a second. Not even to lower my head to see what I was writing. I'd write whilst looking him dead in the eye.
I've seen so many wonderful things on my trip, boy. Things you'd never imagine. All the giants and monsters you've read about in Uncle Gilbert's old books are real, by God. Not a word of a lie, I shot a monster as tall as the bell tower at St. Bazin's yesterday! Not before he killed three of our men, though. I came up behind him in the fray, we had him pincered, see, in the front yard of this poor farmer whose house and daughter were flattened, and shot him right in his ass. Right in his ass, boy! Think of it! Grampap never thought of such a thing when he was killing cows, did he? Oh, I'm laughing right now, if you could only see. You can probably see the spittle stains on the paper, those are from laughter. Emotions run high here, lad, make no mistake. You may be laughing hard at what I wrote, and that's fine, but it's nothing compared to out here. Where tears and hugs are the blinks and breaths of my old life. Around every corner a monster, over every horizon a beast. Death hovers like a spit-rain cloud, and there's no telling if some blasted warlock will curse one of your men into monsterhood, or if their transformation hasn't already begun. I took a swing at Lloyd Linton three nights ago, when I thought his shadow looked bigger than it ought to, but it was only the dusk playing its tricks. I haven't apologised yet, and we haven't spoken. Silence is a swimming hole that we all go down to once a day, contemplating whether to jump in or stay on the shore. I've been skin-dipping with many, but merely watching with others. I'll apologise tomorrow, if he looks deserving. No matter, he's a weak ropesman anyway, and the next Wolfwind or Bridgehawk will certainly do him in and I won't have to worry about it.
When I get home, son, I'll give you my gun. It's so powerful, it shoots for miles! I caught a Batchet from what must have been 30 paces. Sure, it's a mere Batchet, but that's working alone, my boy. When I get home, boy, that's not the only thing I'll give you. I'll give you a hug strong enough to snap your neck, though by that time you'll probably be twice my size, and a kiss sweet enough to rot the teeth out of your head. I'll take you to market, if it's still standing, and we'll get whatever season's fruit, and bushels of it! We'll eat raspberries like nothing ever happened. Like I didn't ever send half of a town's sons as bait to the wrong side of Firecrest Forest, or laid out my childhood chum like so much chunked meat for a Hoggish to devour, and run screaming in the other direction. Like I never tossed a woman's newborn babe to the mouths of a pack of bloodthirsty Mangecats to show them we were not a threat. Or stole the ration pouches of every man in the brigade, only to cry and confess the next morning, covered in palm extract paste. I'm not proud of these things, son, but may the Lord suck the blood from your eyes if you judge me for it. It's lawless out here, this is a new kind of nation. Don't be scared for your father, boy, I'm fighting for what's right, and no matter what happens, that's what's important. If I didn't do this, they would get you, these hideous beasts, and your mother too. And ol' Tippy, in Braybush. I think about her sometimes, boy, when I'm killing. Don't tell your mother. I'll hack off a jaw or a snout (for food, see) of some horrible urchin, and I'll think about her beautiful face, still fifteen years old. I'm not afraid anymore, boy, not of anything. And I'm too old now to be wrong.
Give the four fenceposts a kiss for me, for luck, and say the rosary before every meal, even today. Get the shovel from my tools and dig a trench in the shape of a heart around the house. I'm afraid I won't recognise it when I come back, and that will tell me for certain. I can feel myself growing stronger, as I finish this letter, boy. I know a brighter tomorrow will make brighter these todays, which will so soon be yesterdays. And may God keep us all on the path, the track, to Heaven.
Heave ho!
- Da
Lightning Dust - "Listened On"
You can reach into the middle of this song, to its core, and hold on to it for the support you need. No matter what goes on around it, that voice, it walks like a pre-teen in high heels, wobbly ankles, it's so true and sad, and it doesn't kid around. If you've ever cut down a Christmas tree, you know what I'm talking about. You can reach right in, past the needles and branches, the ne'er-do-much strumming and the merely periphery organ, and hold on to that voice to keep your balance, to grab hold when the bottom falls out, to carry it home with you. She sings like she'd never look you in the eye. [release in July]
Mirah & Spectratone International - "Community"
A bassy and treblesome science project of a song. It's about human interaction, but largely about attraction via pheromones. "It's an expressive art, instinctually smart." And as the odd timing and two-stepping voice floats along the air, I think about the relationship between instinct and art. Is there something ingrained in this song, something inherent and innate (if this song were born of Mirah's mouth-womb and Spectratone's sound box) that makes me love it? Does her voice sound like she is especially fertile? Do the guitars sound like a warning siren to my predators, indicating kinship? Is my evolutionary need for productivity drawn to the end refrain of "We get things done"? I assume all these answers are yes, and that my love of any art is not because of any ability to appreciate craft, but rather a drooling, glaring attraction to growth, survival, and progress. [Buy old stuff]
Sgt. Dunbar & The Hobo Banned - "The Weight"
This song kind of looks around the bus or the crowded elevator and gets sad about all the sad faces. And I want to speak to this song, the kind of way you talk to yourself in the mirror without moving your lips: it's not your job to shoulder the grief, guilt, and pain of other people, especially strangers. Yes, it's heavy, but that's not something to cry about. Cars are heavy too. And all the food you eat in a year is heavy, and so is all the carpet you've ever walked on, rolled up. You need to get out of the mindset that every trampled flower is worth a tear and a hug, because you're going to waste all the time you could be spending planting a new garden, or sleeping. [Sgt. Dunbar site] [The Hobo Banned site]
--
Sean Moeller asked me how Frog Eyes was the other night, and I've prepared a video response for you, Sean. to orient you, the reader, it's the ending of 2007's best song yet: "Bushels". [buy]
T.D. Reisert - "For How They Forget"
Set in Palm Beach (not the city in Florida, but the beach in the palm of your hand). Wet only with the moisture that gathered when your fist was clenched in silence. The ridges of your skin sink and crest, and the wind is rather incessant. The structure, the landscape, seems to be oddly constructed, glued together last-minute, but the longer you stay, if you stay right til the last minute, you'll feel it all glide into place. [Buy]
The Low Lows - "Lane Fire"
The same is true here. Like a drunk silent comedian, stumbling all around the room, almost falling into a hundred different things, almost losing his balance a hundred different times, the act is about holding the fall until the last possible second. And in the song, with its corduroy colour and smoke-rising pace, the beauty of that wait becomes central, like when a camera pans completely around a room, waiting for that first thing to re-appear. And here the camera pans past dirty dancefloor tiles with shuffling old cowboy boots lit in hazy blue light. Up to a man waiting for his wife to finish slow-dancing so he can take her home. Over to an old lady protecting her whisky glass like it was in danger of evaporating. On past a young man with his head down, inexplicably. And then back to the boots, and the tiles, and the light. [Site]
--
Frog Eyes tonight.
MGMT - "We Care"
It is with a heavy heart and a tail between my legs that I return to post about MGMT. Last time, I wasn't very favourable, though I liked the song; I never post anything I don't have some affinity for, be it perverse or not. However, a certain MGMT champion, named Jeff, emailed me 15 months after that post, with a last-ditch letter trying to get me to listen to "the real MGMT", the one that the band could have been, had they followed earlier directions. And, rigidly biased as I was (the comments on the original post made me like the band even less) this song eventually broke me. Just tonight, right about the time you were falling asleep, I sloughed off a kind of tension in a similar way, I was lulled into the world of this song, and I liked it. There's a purple sky with stars in it, like outer space but purple. There's ships that fly on old green screens (like the opening credits to Bizarre) and most likable of all, the citizens don't seem like they're trying really hard to get laid. The chorus glides off a precipice like an underwater cliff, and off into that purple beyond. It's nice. [you can't buy this, but buy other stuff]
--
Simon Larson - "Justine"
It sounds like the band is following Justine down the street, or maybe this song just follows Justine around, getting mysteriously into the heads of the people she passes like a cloud of perfume. It gets all confused, and kind of trips on itself clumsily as it looks around for an ending by process of elimination, but its dressed-up charm is unfazed and it stoops and steps backward out the door, bowing the whole time.
I can't find any further information about him online.
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about said the gramophone
This is a daily sampler of really good songs. All tracks are posted out of love. Please go out and buy the records.
To hear a song in your browser, click the  and it will begin playing. All songs are also available to download: just right-click the link and choose 'Save as...'
All songs are removed within a few weeks of posting.
Said the Gramophone launched in March 2003, and added songs in November of that year. It was one of the world's first mp3blogs.
If you would like to say hello, find out our mailing addresses or invite us to shows, please get in touch:
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Please don't send us emails with tons of huge attachments; if emailing a bunch of mp3s etc, send us a link to download them. We are not interested in streaming widgets like soundcloud: Said the Gramophone posts are always accompanied by MP3s.
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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.
Site design and header typography by Neale McDavitt-Van Fleet. The header graphic is randomized: this one is by Matthew Feyld.
PAST AUTHORS
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 was wondering when they were going to release some new tracks. Got to hear this song live at the !!! show. They need to get a full lenght out. Any idea when that will happen Tyler said they were working on it....whatever that means.