Archives : all posts by Sean

Frank Ocean - "Lost". Frank Ocean has a buttercream silk shirt, and it's Versace. No-- No, he doesn't. A lesson in character. A reminder. Just because it is sung, sung like this, r&b, does not mean that it is true. No more it was for Frank Sinatra, no more than it is for the Mountain Goats. This is fiction. A cook and his girl, double D, jets skimming and tilting the land. Deliveries and holidays. And the narrator knows something is wrong here, despite the bounty, the sun-dry beats, the melody that rises effortlessly from a certain kind of life. Something is lost in the lie. [buy on iTunes]

John K Samson - "When I Write My Master's Thesis". John K Samson plays Grand Theft Auto and works on his master's thesis. No-- No, he doesn't. A lesson in character. A reminder. Just because it is sung, sung like this, joyful rock'n'roll, does not mean it is true. No more than it was for Notorious BIG, no more than it is for Dirty Projectors. John K is not into video games. He has never been a graduate student. This is fiction. A student and his manuscript, .DOCX, ambitions draining out through the kerning of the words. Deadlines and bibliography. And the narrator knows there is a wall up ahead that he can crash right through, if he is moving fast enough, to be met with banners and balloons and a shattered MacBook casing. It is not a race unless there is a finish-line. [buy]

(photo by Wandy Gaotama)

Planningtorock - "Patriarchy Over & Out". The Ministerium of Men did not expect this. Yes, they expected an attack - rebellions had been predicted for decades, since the Sisters were thrown in jail. They had thousands of plans and counterplans, for - they thought - every eventuality. But they did not expect this. Sun crested over the capital and the rebel's army glinted only dimly, like pebbles on a beach. They did not wear platemail or exoskeleton, did not ride siege weapons or tanks. They did not have bazookas on their shoulders, nor crossbows, nor laser-rifles. There were no elephants. The rebellion against the Ministerium of Men did not ascribe to any known metaphor of war. They rejected precedent, model, pattern, structure. They wore silk and steam, cinnamon and plywood. Their vehicles were manta-rays and teen idols, ice-cream floats and Oscar Meier trucks. They carried holstered oak leaves, skip-ropes, romances, Bill Cosby impressions, echo. They marched in disorder, like swirling ocean eddies or barfing grandmothers. They seemed unknowable, carpeting the plateau. They had green eyes and brown eyes and grey eyes and blue. Their voices, shouting, seemed protean and mystic, stronger than any senator. "Yé-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye," they shrieked. "No no no no no no no, no no no no no." In their marble chambers, the Ministers trembled. [Out 30 July / bandcamp]

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Rufus Wainwright - "Sometimes You Need". So maybe this is a song about going to a dogpark with Jake Gyllenhaal, up near Griffith Observatory. But it's beautiful, so beautiful, beautiful-as-can-be for a song that's just a little tacky, with lines about "movie star eyes" and a "movie star's [dog's?] bark". Wainwright is a gifted arranger, Mark Ronson an inspired one, and their work is transcendent here: acoustic guitar, strings, an oboe even, deliberate and gorgeous. So easy to add a bland sweep of violins; but this orchestration is precise, particular, changing the song. Suddenly we see gardens, Hollywood-lit, the park's droll undertone, and understand the way a plain, dumb stroll can help you find yourself again. [buy]

Justin Bieber - "Die In Your Arms". Bouncing harpsichord, Justin still cherubic, but here's a song about wanting to die in your arms. Can you imagine this kid expiring, maybe with bullet-holes in his chest, and a beatific smile on his face? Can you imagine him going peacefully into death? I imagine him shrieking, sniffling, clawing the unjust air. Kid's never known love. Kid's never known a love he'd trade everything for. These lines are pure fiction: "If I could just die in your arms / I wouldn't mind." But most pop music is fiction, after all - at best the recollection of a feeling. And here's a tune that's a middle-eight short of brilliant, because did I mention that harpsichord? It's borrowed from Michael Jackson's "We've Got a Good Thing Going". And did I mention those fingersnaps? They're new. And did I mention that there are certain chord progressions that are coded into our bodies, just like sunsets look nice, yes sunsets look nice. Produced by Darkchild, the producer with the most bad-ass name, who gave us sweetheart singles like Monica & Brandy's "The Boy Is Mine" and Destiny's Child "Lose My Breath". [buy]

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Snailhouse - "Sentimental Gentleman (demo)". This song is taken from A Sentimental Companion, a small collection of demos that marks the final release by Montreal's Snailhouse. From here on out, the man who released eight albums as Snailhouse will be known by the name his mother gave him, Michael Feuerstack. I love this recording of "Sentimental Gentleman" and it feels like the perfect last thing from a man who is changing, in a very small way, into something else. Like a song that is sung before you splash water on your face, in the men's-room sink. An electric guitar resounds in a room, a leaf waves on a branch, lyrics unfurl with perfect ease - like a banner strung between street-corners. So deliberate and direct, confident and just faintly wry. Bold-hearted, unsentimental sentiment, from one of the best, and my favourites, no fuss. [buy/bandcamp]

Johnny Boy - "You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes and You'll Get What You Deserve". Have any of you ever moved before? I mean moved house. It is a little bit like dying. You float above your things, wondering, Why did I buy that? or Why did I neglect that? or How did I let this thing get so dusty? You are at once pleased with all you have accumulated and humiliated by it. You pack things in boxes and some boxes make you feel like a logistical engineering ninja while others make you feel incompetent, like a melting pile of wax. I am more incompetent than wax. At a certain point in the day you think, It is time for a beer. And then in a panicked sweat you hope that the beers you purchased are twist-off beers, because your bottle-opener is hidden in some sealed-up part of your past, among the electrical bills, photo albums, porcelain and mittens.

I am trying to decide whether the last thing I pack will be my stereo, my computer, the lamps, or my shoes. This feels like many kinds of metaphor.

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Hangedup and Tony Conrad - "Transit of Venus". At first the monument seemed like a righteous thing. The materials were good - granite, steel, glass, garnets. The design was beautiful. But as the weeks of building went on, an ugliness came over the enterprise. The swarming workers seemed stuffed with dust; their faces seemed waxen, crude. When they pushed the stones upright, it was as if something was being distorted, as if a lie was being made. The cutting sounded like shearing. There was a pallor to the light. Finally the tower was complete, adorned with brave shapes, and this proud tribute was a hideous thing, its own betrayal, cursed. [buy]

Moonface with Siinai - "Heartbreaking Bravery". It is difficult to hear a break-up song, written earnestly, between two people you know. I do not wish it upon anyone. It is difficult because it is uncomfortable: I did not want to imagine that look in your eyes. I did not want to imagine those words on your lips. It is difficult because when people you know behave in an ugly way, in front of you, some of that ugliness seems to come off on your own hands, smeared. It is difficult because heartbreak is sad. Spencer Krug, Moonface, recorded this song in Finland, far away from Boréale beer and the Van Horne underpass. He is not coming to Montreal on his current tour. He sounds ruined, angry, ragged. Perhaps bitter. I hope that since recording this music he has heard other songs, songs that taught him certain lessons. You are wrong. What has happened is for the good. You will see. Maybe an album of love songs, next time, the sky clearing out. [buy]

(Photo is of the Velvet Underground playing for the American Society of Clinical Psychiatrists, 1965. Source.)

Hop Along - "Diamond Mine". At the airport, thinking: Quick, wi-fi-, Said the Gramophone, what to say? And I do not know what to say. Three weeks on the far side of the world; homecoming; hydration, red-eye, jet-lag. My body feels leaden, earthbound, while other things shoot and fly through blood. Feelings too shaky for a steady hand, a steady voice: enter Hop Along. Creaking yays, lightningbolt shout, crashing cymbals, breaking voices. This band does not wait for equilibrium. It shoots first, leaps, runs with tears in its eyes. Epic win or epic fail. Diamonds. [bandcamp / thanks Hamza]