TwoBusy: The feeling never goes away

November 12, 2007

The feeling never goes away

All I can say is... wow.

Last night I abandoned my wife and children and headed into the big, bad city for an evening of beers and rock and roll! On a school night! (extending devil fingers, á la Dio) As Boom Crash Opera once said, these here are crazy times.

I met my friend Koko at the Sunset Grill in scenic Allston - home to 112 beers on tap, and nearly 400 more in bottles - and enjoyed a few hours of good food, bad football and generalized trash talk before heading over to Great Scott for an evening with The Brother Kite.

I'd read that this was supposed to be their EP release event, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect -- being a suburban father of three, it's not the kind of thing that comes up frequently in my life. I was kind of surprised, though, when we walked in an hour before the official showtime and saw just a couple of dozen people sitting around, chatting and nursing beers, enjoying a low-key evening. "Hey, look," I said to Koko, pointing over to a nearby table. "Those two guys and that woman? I think they're in the band." We looked at them for a minute, then shrugged our shoulders, walked over to the bar and sat down. "Welcome to the glamorous world of indie rock," said Koko.

Ninety minutes later, we heard the band doing a final tune-up, and we meandered over to the stage area. We parked ourselves next to the wall - only 8 or 10 feet away from the stage - and watched them go through their last-minute preparations. Finally, after a brief, extremely self-depricating and fairly charming "You're probably here to see the other bands, but we're The Brother Kite" intro by Jon Downes, they launched into Get On, Me... and instantly, I was overwhelmed with joy.

To be honest, before I'd heard the new EP, I'd been concerned about the band's ability to translate their recorded sound to live performance. Their music is so intricate, with layers upon layers of melody and subtle interplay, and the production - especially on their tremendous second album, Waiting for the Time To Be Right - is so crystalline... my fear was that there'd be no way to recreate that effect outside of the studio. However, the EP featured a live version of that album's climatic Never In Years which achieved exactly what you'd hope to find in a live performance: a fresh interpretation that adds something new and different to a song you already know and love.

The show last night made it clear this was no anomaly. While the sound was rough - a function of cheap club speakers - there was no mistaking the beautiful noise the band created. From the one terrific new song they played (called Bleeder, according to the set list Koko grabbed after they were done -- see pic above) through the resonant chiming and soaring and aching of Never In Years to the joyous life-retrospective that is Half-Century (or 1/2 100y, according to the set list. I think this may be some kind of geometry, but to be honest I was an English major so that's just a guess), they had a small but honestly enthusiastic group of friends, family and appreciative listeners frantically bobbing their heads along in time throughout the too-short set.

And then... it was over. Koko - who midway through the set had declared his intentions and noted that he was the proud owner of a robust collection of personally-claimed Luna set lists - wasn't shy about walking up to the stage two minutes later to ask for the set list. The band generous acquiesced, and then Koko pointed out to Patrick (lead singer, guitarist) that I was the guy he'd e-mailed and invited the previous week (see comments at the bottom of the link). He waved hi, I waved hi back, then quickly shook his hand and expressed my gratitude at what I'd just seen.

Pretty cool.

So. Koko and I repaired to the bar end of Great Scott, where I finished the Sam Oktoberfest I'd been nursing since before the show started. A few minutes later, drummer Matt walked by and set up a little schwag booth near the front door -- Koko, properly moved by what he'd just seen, wandered over and picked up a few items (I purchased the comely and all-cotton black t-shirt pictured above) while enjoying a brief conversation with a guy who he'd referred to less than three minutes before as "an incredible fucking drummer." Which was also pretty cool.

And it was at this point, laden with fresh goods and good spirits, that we decided to call it a night (especially given that we both needed to be at work bright and early the next/this morning). We made our way toward the steps by the front door, and I was on maybe the second or third step when out of the corner of my eye I suddenly saw someone purposefully moving toward us. It was Patrick, who again extended his hand and said something to the effect of "Thanks again for coming out to see us." Looking face-to-face with him (at this point I should mention that Patrick is reeeeeeally tall - 6-5 or something - and this perspective was possible only because I was standing at least two steps above ground level) I stammered something along the lines of "Hey, thank you so much for the invitation, and for giving me an excuse to come out. You guys were incredible, and I'm so glad that I saw you live." He thanked me again, and then Koko and I headed out into the chilly, early November evening.

Standing outside on Comm Ave., watching the T go by, I stood there amazed for a minute. "Am I hallucinating," I asked, "or did the lead singer of the band that I came out to see tonight just thank me for coming?" Koko just laughed. "That was pretty incredible," he said.

My face was wall-to-wall grin. "Honestly, I don't know how I could be much happier right now," I said, to myself as much as to my friend.

And we walked off into the night.

03:35 PM | Permalink

Comments

All I can say is... wow.

Pretty cool.

My face was wall-to-wall grin. "Honestly, I don't know how I could be much happier right now," I said, to myself as much as to my friend.

And we walked off into the night.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

A Winged Victory for the Sullen: A Winged Victory for the Sullen
My 2011 album of the year. Achingly gorgeous neo-classical compositions designed to leave you on the verge of tears. I've been listening to it almost non-stop for months; you should do the same.
Hammock: Longest Year EP
There are few things more frustrating than trying to describe the gorgeous, evocative and profoundly atmospheric post-rock music of Hammock without A) resorting to clichés that, while not necessarily inaccurate, do little to accurately describe the listening experience; or B) having the musical vocabulary to adequately describe just what it is about these lengthy, largely wordless compositions that hypnotizes and moves me so profoundly. So I'll just say: imagine a film. No words; just images. Flashing, semi-grainy images of someone from your past — impossibly beautiful, vibrant and full of life. Someone lost to you forever. Imagine that feeling, of love and impossible longing and desperate, hopeless desire to recapture that moment and make it last forever. Now hunt down the title track to this EP, close your eyes, and listen. And you will know: this is the music for that feeling.
Peter Gabriel: New Blood
Man, what a disappointment this turned out to be. I've been a fan of Peter Gabriel's for more than 20 years, and while his post-Passion albums have been uneven at best... I was thrilled when I heard that he was re-recording some of his best songs with an orchestra. I grabbed it on the day it was released, tossed it in my trusty CD player, and... um... didn't love it. So I listened to it again. And again. And again. And now, after four full listens, I've concluded: this isn't music I can love. I mean, some of the songs work pretty well (generally the quieter ones — San Jacinto, Mercy Street and Wallflower are fairly lovely), but as a whole the album comes off as more of a compositional exercise than an attempt to create songs of real and lasting beauty. It's a crime, really, because the great strengths of Gabriel's music have always been rooted in his ability to marry thoughtful lyrics to passionate vocals and complex, deeply-emotional music that supports the first two elements. But here? The lyrics and vocals (and PG is, admittedly, still in very fine voice) are subordinated to overly-busy arrangements that rob the music of the very things that make it so extraordinary. It's a disappointing discovery, and to be completely honest the best thing about this album is the fact that it's forced me to go back to the original executions and appreciate, with a freshened perspective, just how wonderful they are.
Low: C'mon
A tremendous and much-appreciated return to form for this legendary Duluth, MN slowcore trio, and a welcome reminder of why they are both one of the very best and most interesting bands in the world. From the gorgeous, chilly-yet-warm harmonies of married folk Mimi Parker and Alan Sparhawk to the impeccable sense of atmosphere and dynamics that have always defined their finest work as a heady blend of atmosphere, melancholy and quiet beauty... it's all here. Look: just give a listen to "Especially Me" or "Try To Sleep" and tell me you're not charmed, moved and completely hooked. I defy you.
The Cure: Disintegration (Deluxe Edition) (3CD)
Why spring for the 3-CD deluxe edition, even if this is one of the greatest albums ever recorded? Three reasons: 1) Because the original album has been remastered, and now sounds better than ever — the bass is now audible, and the songs now offer a crystalline clarity that bring the aching beauty of Plainsong and Closedown to new levels. 2) The 2nd disc, which offers demos of most of Disintegration's songs, offer a fascinating glimpse into Smith's creative process. 3) The 3rd disc is a live album, and its version of Pictures of You is, simply, astonishing. One note: even better than springing for this? Is having @MrLady do it for you. I highly recommend that approach.

Reading is Fundamental

Daryl Gregory: Raising Stony Mayhall
Man, Daryl Gregory is an interesting writer. This is a zombie novel, but it's utterly unlike any other zombie novel I've read (and let's be clear: from The Angels Are The Reapers to World War Z and Breathers, there's a wiiiide range of very good ones out there). Why? Because our title character is a part of the Living Dead community — and he's as rich and fully realized a character as you'll ever come across: an individual loved by his family, first hidden from and then feared by the world, and desperately curious to explore and understand his nature. What, exactly, is he? How is it possible that he was born dead, is and has always been composed of unliving tissue... and yet still grew up? Gregory couples this greatly realized characterization with a compelling plot that follows Stony from his "childhood" on an Iowa farm to a growing Living Dead underground community to prison and revolution and beyond — and the result is a truly compelling read that blends some fascinating questions with a sense of fun and engagement that never wavers. This is a worthy follow-up to Gregory's "The Devil's Alphabet," and while neither of these two novels quite matches the dizzying heights he reached with his stunning debut, "Pandemonium," it's still a terrific read that deserves your attention.
Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile
When an author returns to a series years after abandoning it, it's frequently a journey fraught with peril. All too often, they seem to lose their handle on the characters and unique tone that made their earlier work so fun and successful, and you finish the book kind of wishing they'd never gone down this road. Having said that, I was grateful to discover that Dennis Lehane's return to Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro in "Moonlight Mile" is an energetic and very successful reintroduction of the deeply sardonic (and funny) dialogue and dark & twisty plotting that made his early novels such an incredible pleasure. It's been more than a decade since Lehane left them behind to move on to "Mystic River" (still one of the best things I've ever read)... and when we rejoin Patrick and Angie, we discover that a decade has passed in their lives, as well. They've grown older (and possibly a little wiser), just another couple in Boston doing their best to make ends meet — when suddenly they find themselves launched into a search for Amanda McCready, a 16yo girl who a dozen years previously was the missing girl at the heart of Lehane's wonderful "Gone Baby Gone" (as well as Ben Affleck's outstanding film adaptation of the same). What happens from that point forward is nothing if not tremendously satisfying, and while as a novel this may not reach quite the same dizzying heights of some of Lehane's other work... it's an absolute, uncompromising pleasure and a welcome reminder of why we fell in love with his writing and these characters in the first place. Great, great stuff.
Emma Donoghue: Room
Yeah. It's every bit as good as you've heard. And every bit as lovely, heartbreaking and tragic, too. The idea is brilliant: Jack is five years old, and has lived his entire life in Room. With his Ma. And with occasional, after-dark visits from Old Nick — who, Jack doesn't realize, is the man who years ago kidnapped and imprisoned a then-19yo girl in Room. As far as Jack is aware, he, Ma and Old Nick are the only real people in the universe. Everything else - what he sees on TV and what little he can view through the tiny skylight at the top of room - is make-believe. I could say more to describe what happens, but really... there's no way I'm going to give anything away. I'll just say, instead, that Donoghue does an impossibly masterful job of creating an entirely believable 5-year old boy who might have been born and raised in such an environment — and who might react to the things he experiences in the way that Jack ultimately does. Every piece of this story has the ring of absolute truth, and that (more than anything else) is what helps to define it as one of the most haunting things I've read in a long, long time. Highly, highly recommended.
Greg Olear: Fathermucker: A Novel
I wanted to like this. I really, really wanted to like this. The concept sounded terrific: a SAHD in an upper-middle class enclave in upstate NY is told, during the course of a playdate, that there is suspicion his wife is having an affair. The idea is pure gold — a setting and a cast of characters impossibly ripe for comedy, plus an opportunity to add some emotional depth via the very troubling idea of a beloved wife (in an imperfect marriage) who may be quietly shattering our protagonist's heart. Unfortunately... the execution fell far short of my expectations. Let me be clear: Olear can write — he knows how to craft language and put together an interesting story. And he certainly does a credible job of recreating the vast wilderness of SAHM/D life in the 'burbs. But in terms of really delivering on either the comedic or tragic implications of the story... it fails. Problem 1: it's not funny. At all. And the fact that Olear clearly has the ideas and chops to deliver on a strong comic premise - and yet, consistently, fails to do so - became an ongoing source of frustration for me as I went through the book. I'll put it this way: a full-length comic novel that makes you smile and/or laugh a grand total of once? Is not a very successful comic novel. Problem 2: it offers multiple opportunities to broaden into really emotionally resonant territory, both as a function of exploring the wife's possible infidelity and in exploring the emotional impact of having a child on the autism spectrum (Asperger's, in this case) on a marriage. And yet, every time it starts moving in that direction... Olear instead veers into a machine-gun spatter of pages-long paragraphs listing people who attended a playdate and how they interact with and/or screw around with each other (or some other, similar tactic). It's as if he's hoping that if he dances realrealrealfast, no one will notice that he's not ready or willing to write with anything approaching real emotion. All of which leads me to this conclusion: I've read far, far worse books this year... but none that made me feel more frustrated or actively angry for not being better. (Disclosure: I was sent this book by the very kind people at Fathermucker's publishing house, whose name I can't think of right now. Thanks and sorry — I really wanted to enjoy this a lot more than I did.)
Warren Fahy: Fragment
Remember back when Michael Crichton was cranking out blockbuster-movie-plots-disguised-as-novels and every review was pretty much the same? The details varied from book to book, but almost without exception you'd read a review and learn that he'd put together a book with a propulsive plot, a bunch of surprises and thrills, lots of technical and/or scientific detail to show off all the research he did, and little doubt that the characters and dialogue were anything more than paper-thin. Well, Crichton is gone — but with Fragment, Warren Fahy makes a solid attempt to recreate the Crichton model... for better and for worse. The novel is basically built around the same initial concept as King Kong: a tiny, remote island out in the middle of nowhere in the South Pacific is discovered — and is quickly found to be inhabited by all kinds of fascinating monsters. Boatloads of energetic scenes of people getting shredded by the aforementioned monsters inevitably ensues. Fahy's Crichton-esque take is to cast this island and its bizarre inhabitants as an ultraviolent evolutionary offshoot, where billions of years of isolation have resulted in the creation of all kinds of horrifying and efficiently bloodthirsty inhabitants, including (most memorably) the spiger, which basically looks like a 15-foot long hybrid of a spider and a tiger (it even has orange stripes). Sounds promising, right? Until you realize that Fahy has failed to back up this premise with things like "believable characters" or "dialogue" or "depth." Which leaves us with a passable beach or airplane read... and not much more.