Archives : all posts by Jordan

Spokane - "Leisure"

In the music of Spokane, like in the city of Spokane, not much happens. The volume of a song at its beginning is usually the same at its end; the melody in any one bar like that of every other. Choruses are rare and the dramatic is non-existent. Central to this music is a healthy dose of dullness - just enough to make the listener question why she is listening at all, to draw her close in curiosity, at which point, inevitably, the faithful is rewarded with a miniature musical detail - something small but ever so relatively precious. In the case of "Leisure," this detail is a neat instance of the medieval compositional practice of word painting: Forty-five seconds into the song, when the singer sings "thick," he's joined by a second, even quieter voice. The sound is thickened almost imperceptibly, but the change is as satisfying as if it were a drum fill leading into a crescendo. [Buy]

Tom Thumb - "Providence"

One of the only two-inch medieval Britons ever to become an American general in the 19th century, Tom Thumb is notable too for his tautly arranged, tightly worded east coast pop. Through a previous album and an EP, StG has watched Tom Thumb progress through a series of increasingly delicate, felt melodies toward his essential Tom Thumbness. In every respect - the quality of the writing, the playing and the production - his latest album, The Taxidermist, is the best expression yet of the little guy's vision - a nostalgic, late evening Americana. Somewhere between Bruce Springsteen and early Peter Gabriel, between the strings of an acoustic guitar and the keys of a harpsichord, Tom Thumb has found himself fully at last.

[Send Tom Thumb a note on MySpace, order one of only 200 copies of The Taxidermist]

Huey "Piano" Smith - "Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie-Woogie Flu"

Huey "Piano" Smith suffers from chronic and severe cases of both rockin' pneumonia and boogie-woogie flu. Such a dual affliction is admittedly as rare as steak tartare, but Smith's song, prototypically symptomatic of his condition, leaves no doubt about the authenticity of his so-called suffering. You see, taken together, the two diseases pose a contradiction: those sick with rockin' pneumonia experience music as euphoria, as a promise of infinite, untapped possibility, while the victim of boogie-woogie flu is largely incapacitated by the same stimulus, rendered utterly incapable of tapping the untapped. Hence, Smith is inspired by music to kiss a woman, though he ultimately finds "the gal too tall;" he is compelled to run, though his "feet are too slow." In fact, so profound is Smith's case that not even Jonas Salk himself would be capable of finding a cure. Thank goodness then that the man known as "Piano" learned to live with his ailment, even joining forces with the similarly sick: namely, a baritone sax player, who, if my ears do not deceive me, has a mean case of R&B fever, and a drummer with whooping cough of soul.

[Buy]

Nat Baldwin - "Dome Branches"

A ferociously bowed double bass, a singer with a flair for the melismatic, several dudes with an interest in free jazz, a chorus in 3/4, a verse in 5/4, an expert drummer who shows us the interchangeability over time of the two, a romantic guitar solo, harmonics like diamonds, a twelve-string guitar like a flock of big, angry birds, something borrowed from Motown, horns played as carefully as this song is sung soulfully (very), the fraught repetition of the nonsensical noun phrase "dome branches." These are but some of the elements of one of the finer songs on one of the very finest albums this year will see.

[Please do buy Most Valuable Player.]

Otis Rush - "Double Trouble"

Lying on my back, drooling blood onto a bib, the last thing I wanted to hear was "Hotel California." Not that I should have been surprised; rarely has a dentist's appointment been endured without the exacerbating sonic stimulus of the Eagles' signature tune. The faulty psychology that leads dentists to fill their examination rooms with "soothing" soft rock is as fallacious as the logic that a lifetime's worth of twice-annual dental appointments is better than losing your teeth at thirty and having to suck processed filet mignon through a straw for the rest of your life. No, the only thing that made me more depressed than finding out that I have three cavities - one for each year since my last such rendezvous - was finding it out to a soundtrack of Don Henley. In future, dentists, please cease all manipulativeness; please be frank; please play only Otis Rush while you inflict your iniquities; please dim the lights real low - I don't care if your vision is impaired; please turn the heat way up; please provide scotch, not water, for me to rinse my mouth with. O you doctors of the teeth, let's call a spade a spade; an appointment with you isn't sun-soaked, but dark, dark blue.

Elizabeth Cotten - "Hallelujah, It Is Done"

[Buy Otis, Liz]

Otis Rush - "All Your Love (I'm Missing It)"

As easy as it might be to dismiss this sultry blues as a mere genre exercise, I urge you to listen until at least 1:08, when Otis Rush shows us that a guitar can be like a wrecking ball and a song a flimsy structure to be torn down. What comes after - thirty Italian dandies dancing the mashed potato in a living room scene directed by Michelangelo Antonioni - is all well and fine, but nothing compares to the moment when Rush's band is sent into a trembling retreat, is utterly cowed, by the power of the man's piercing, distorted guitar, unleashed just seconds after he pines, "I love you baby," and then oh so unconvincingly, "and I know you love me, too."

An ideal soundtrack to a bottle fight I once observed outside a Milanese train station.

[Buy]

Kate Maki - "White Noise" (mp3 removed at label request. stream here.)

Today I drank one glass (two fingers) of scotch, one bottle (75 cl) and one can (33 cl) of sparkling water – all while listening to this song. Don’t be afraid to ask, go ahead: You want to know the source of this gluttonous thirst. It’s the verses, I tell you, the earthy, human sounds of strings and cords and chords and keys (and keys), the searching, unresolved, huddled harmony. It imparts to the listener a thirst unquenchable even by a fistful of scotch and 108 cl of fine French eau gazeuse. Luckily there’s the chorus, which, introduced by a single, perfectly cadenced note on the piano, and followed by a chest-wrenching vocal harmony, acts like a keg of Gatorade poured directly down the thirsty’s throat. I would wait through an infinite verse if it meant I might be able to glimpse this chorus as I approached the limit. [Buy]

***

Cannon's Jug Stompers - "Going To Germany"

A letter of explanation to an ex-lover whose stalking behaviour has driven the singer of this song to flee from his home in the southern US of A to a hideout in Germany, replete with all the weariness and frustration such an aural epistle entails ... and more ( i.e. a jug bass)! [Buy]