Seasons Change

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."

In Rotation: To Willie

What? To Willie by Phosphorescent, Matthew Houck's reverent ode to Willie Nelson, and therefore to plain old regret, doubt, the pain-muting qualities of various substances, and the fresh regret engendered thereby.

Why this? Why today? I can't fully explain it, but something about spring run-off invariably sends me scurrying for the comforts of country music and its off-shoots. Recent days have seen me cozying up to Neko Case and Merle Haggard, but this is the one that sticks, the CD that gets carried from the car to the house and back again. It stirs memories of pre-adolescence, when my dad would mumble along to Willie's albums (cassettes) and I'd try to figure out just what there was to be so damn sad about. Now I'm older, and I understand. So does Matthew Houck.

This was a test, in a way, this season. I mean, if in fact this is spring, because who the hell knows around here, but the sun's out, the snow's all but gone, and we're up to our armpits in mud. If we don't have a snowstorm in the next few weeks, we might even start to see shoots. But this is the first urban spring I've experienced in eight or nine years, and I wasn't sure it'd be the same. No flooded fields, no overflowing ditches, no gravel road turned into a mudpit. I wasn't sure I'd have the same musical impulses. Would I open the windows and bleat along with Gram Parsons the same as I used to? Happily, yes.

What's strange is the degree to which my two year-old daughter has taken to the record. Thing is her favourite song is "Reasons to Quit" (sample lyric: "...the coke and booze don't do me like before...") and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

In Rotation: Parc Avenue

What? Parc Avenue, the Montreal-referencing long playing debut by that city's Plants & Animals.

Why this? Why today? Because I couldn't find anything more appropriate for Opening Day, short of Terry Cashman. And I just couldn't do that (again).

I might be the last to hop this bandwagon, but the earthy, barefoot feel of this prog-folk-indie-Americana beast has me thinking of dirt between my toes. Spring - wouldn't that be nice?

There's also a pleasing Northern Lights-Southern Cross vibe simmering from beneath the surface (minus the, er, desperation?) that meets with my approval. Why is it Canadians do this stuff so much better?

In other news: The first issue of Eartrip magazine is available for DL. It features a Coltrane CD review I first posted here.

Also, another episode of Now's the Time is now up for you listening pleasure:

Now's the Time: Mark O's Year of the Guitar, Part 3: Kenny Burrell

And lastly, I'll be interviewing Adrian Cho, director of the Impressions in Jazz Orchestra, this Thursday on NTT. I'll then spend the last hour of the show spinning cuts from the Coltrane-as-sideman boxset Interplay. If you even sorta like hard bop, tune in. Essential listening.

Popsicle Trickledown

And so here come the dog days, days of standings that actually mean something, oven-hot days studded with rapidly melting frozen treats, the sticky orange or pink or purple juice dripping over your knuckles. Open the windows and hear the buzz of crickets, the hum of lawnmowers, and maybe the pock pock pock of bicycles with Topps stuck in their spokes. The long daylight hours chime aloud with ringing guitars and sweet vocal harmonies. In order to describe the feeling let’s amend that title and call it Powerpopsickle Trickledown.

In many ways I'm guilty of attempting to recreate the magic of a mix given to me by Miss Imperial long ago, a mix called Honey Punch. That cassette fairly lived in my Saturn’s tapedeck from May ‘til October. How could I resist? Redd Kross, Tom Petty, Blue Magoos, Posies, Ass Ponys, Lemonheads, Tommy Tutone, Plimsouls, Cotton Mather, Bangles…

This morning, speeding past cornfields and produce stands and the pretty, languid river, I caught that feeling anew, this time with a two-shot of Matt Murphy-led bands, The Super Friendz and The Flashing Lights. It was bliss! (Is there a better 1-2 pop combination to start an album than "10 lbs" and "Karate Man"? Doubtful!) And it underscored the fact that, whether the ‘60s worshipping, Beatle-booted paisley underground variety, or the more twang-fueled strain, I’m a sucker for this stuff, pure and simple.

During the hot months, the day breaks down into thirds, each with it’s own appropriate sound: the daylight hours belong to powerpop; dusk brings out the Cosmic American Music; once darkness has fallen, it’s Ethiopian jazz, obviously.

The Disposable Fantastic

Prompted by this article, I have been, amidst an unseasonable chill, been contemplating the Summer Song, its nature and purpose. But mostly, yes, I’ve been in search of the song to stand emblematic of the Summer of Oh Seven! That platter which will hereafter call to mind, as vividly as any crisp digital photo, these summer days, the road trips, the colours, the smells.

As Kelefa Sanneh suggests, the Summer Song used to be decided by the masses – it was the song we all recognized from its incessant rotation on the one or two radio stations we had to choose from. It appeared on mixtapes, played in grocery stores and shopping malls and blared from passing cars. Nowadays, of course, that “broad cultural consensus” is elusive, if it’s even possible. In the ongoing fractal division of modern life, unanimity is no longer a factor in the crowning of such old mass cultural capstones. Those carefree beach blanket bingo days are long gone, and now the summer song, like virtually everything else, is a matter of personal choice. There are as many nominees for “The Song of the Summer of 2007” as there are earbud-wearing riders on the world’s public transit systems.

So my song of this summer? Spoon’s “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb” from Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (jeez, how many column inches am I going to devote to this album?). The song is the point on Ga Ga etc. where, as before, Spoon leaven their appealing angularity with a moment of reverent pop sweetness (the Gimme Fiction corollary being “Sister Jack”). Like a good summer song, “Cherry Bomb” is brief, breezy, more or less nonsensical, and inspires handclapping and 120 km/hour sing-alongs.

[Question: would it be possible to fill up a standard 80 minute CDR with songs whose titles or choruses contain the term “Cherry Bomb”?]

So, what’s yours? And what are your all-time summer songs?