Suddenly gone are days at the beach and driving open-windowed, even the days of backyard apple harvesting have passed me by, and what remains is the inevitability of frost. The leaves here are kaleidoscopic and the air's got that tangy bite most days. All of this signals a change in music, of course. It's not as cut-and-dried as digging a box of sweaters and woolens out of the crawlspace, but somehow, what feels right just changes.
Just in time comes a new Walkmen album, Lisbon. Nice; almost like they planned it that way. You and Me is still necessary listening anytime I'm driving around town alone on a cool night. My hand gravitates toward it every time, without fail. There's just the right ratio of bluster to stillness on that record, and every bit of me wanted the new record to retain that feel. It does, mostly. There's a tad bit less introspection, a bit more, well, joy, but this being the Walkmen, it's tinted at the edges, the incoming rot, the sense of temporariness in the happiness that, if I'm being honest, I'd have to say feels true to how I experience happiness. It always feels conditional. I have a black, black heart.
What else? Destination: Out! posted some seriously crazy Masabumi Kikuchi shit that made my wife physically uncomfortable last night while we both shuffled around the kitchen. A bit like the polar opposite to the Walkmen, but worth mentioning, perhaps. It felt autumnal because it wasn't sunny West Coast comfyjazz.
Sooner or later I'll probably dig out the Philip Glass, too. Because I'm deep, deep into my rut now. Before long my kids will lament my reliability. "Shit, it's fall. Dad's gonna drag out that Dracula music."