TwoBusy: iMirror, iMirror, on the wall...

January 07, 2009

iMirror, iMirror, on the wall...

Santa did indeed visit Castle TwoBusy this year, and while he may not have rained down treasures on my pointy little head as he did back in the days when I was a wee little pessimist, the truth is that this year he didn't really need to (my fervent wishes for a shiny new job under the tree notwithstanding). Why? Because, about a week and a half before Christmas, I took myself out retailing and returned home with a shiny new iPhone.

Now, TheWife has had a BlackBerry (or a variation thereof) for years now, and for years I've been teasing her about her profound and passionate devotion to said CrackBerry. Not that I haven't taken advantage of its remote web/e-mail access functionality a few times, but really... the habit has been hers and hers alone, while in the meantime I've been left with phones that were barely functional as phones.

All that changed this year. What with me getting laid off and all, I felt that it was time to finally ensure that I had access not only to all the phone calls with job offers I'd inevitably be buried with, but also full, complete and unfettered access to the hundreds of e-mails with similar offers. So, you know... I had legitimate business purposes for upgrading.

Plus, you know: it's cool as hell.

Anyhow, as an unrelated byproduct of this purchase, I suddenly found myself with a brand new and totally compelling rationale to finally put to good use the $50 in iTunes Gift Cards I'd accumulated over the past year.

Let's be clear: I'm a CD guy. I'm a late technology adapter in serial fashion, but my ongoing love of and devotion to the CD format is more than that: it's an expression of the fact that I know for a fact that many of my favorite songs - the ones that grab my heart and make it twist and ache and yearn in all kinds of compelling ways - are, more often than not, tracks that I never, ever, ever would have found if my music was limited to what I hunted down and purchased online on a song-by-song basis. I love the way that a full CD allows me to get a better feel for the artist than any single-song sample might allow: the way it allows you to peer into the influences (conscious or not) that influenced the artist, to link together themes that recur and echo from song to song, to lose yourself for 40+ minutes in whatever world the artist has created and nourished and carefully pieced together, here, for you.

That being said, I also understand the appeal of the whole "buy just one song" thing. I mean, I'm a compulsive CD shopper, as apt to buy an entire album on the basis of a single song or even just something I read or heard as I am to breathe. (It's something of a problem.) And while my hit-to-miss ratio has been pretty good over the years, there are certainly more than a few CDs in my collection I can point to where I clearly would have been much better off downloading a single song than buying another shiny coaster that realistically does little more than gather dust in my living room.

So: with all that in mind, I decided to look at my shiny new iPhone - and it's shiny embedded iPod and iTunes, and my two shiny $25 Gift Cards - as a musical challenge. What songs did I want to have access to, with full knowledge and confidence that I'd never actually want to own an entire CD of the same? In many senses, this was an opportunity to indulge guilty pleasures... songs I'd always secretly grooved to on the radio, but I'd never in a million years find the motivation or deep-seated need to hunt down, pay for, and bring home in a nifty little plastic bag.

And thus, with the help of TheWife (to a degree: her pleas for more songs by Asia and White Lion have fallen on deaf ears), I began to download. Thus far, I've added 21 songs to my life — and as I now listen to this new mix while I cook each evening, I find myself surprised (and occasionally taken aback) by what I hear. For example:

JOURNEY: Separate Ways, Faithfully, Don't Stop Believin'
When I first said the words "guilty pleasure" to TheWife, I'd barely finished the second syllable of the second word before she started clamoring for Journey! We need Journey! We totally need Journey! She was, of course, completely right. Within a few minutes, I'd located and downloaded these three classiques de fromage (as well as their unavoidable companion piece, Steve Perry's solo Oh, Sherrie). All of which made TheWife jump up and start dancing in exquisitely goofball fashion with our young'uns, hands and hair shooting off in odd directions in tiny paroxysms of something approximating joy... which, I'll admit, was fun to watch.

But a few days later, with her back at work and me in the kitchen grinding out a big batch of chicken tikka masala, as I found myself listening to three different Journey songs in less than half an hour and unconsciously singing along with them, I'll have to admit that I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious and dorky. (Clarification: extra-dorky.) Not in the sense that liking Journey wasn't cool even back in the day, but more in the sense that in my adult life, Journey fandom has generally been associated with people I prefer to avoid — specifically, a satanic, evil pig of an ex-boss from about a decade ago who spent an entire year on the phone (with me sitting helplessly in a cube directly outside her office, unable to do anything) screeching in her unique glass-cutting voice about her engagement to Russell... bitching about Russell (and I have to interject here that to picture this woman and her voice, you have to think of Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl," then make her really, really loud and mean) to her mother, bitching about the wedding to her mother, bitching about her mother and the wedding to her presumably horrifying friends, bitching about everything to her wedding planner, and then - finally - planning and executing her wedding gift to her equally satanic and piggish betrothed: the Journey box set and two front-row tickets to a Journey reunion concert.

(shudder)

Granted, calling them dorks is, really, an insult to dorks. But nevertheless, it's what went through my head. And then, suddenly, as all this flowed through my skull Steve Perry launched into Faithfully's "whoa-oo whoa-oo whoa-ooooo" section... and without a second thought, I left all cares behind and allowed myself to finally, at last, fall into the warm embrace of the cheese. And it felt wonderful.

THE DARKNESS: I Believe In A Thing Called Love
On an awesomeness scale of 1-10, this song ranks a 47. Even without the video - which is, granted, hysterically funny - this song is everything you could hope for in 4:21. Crazy falsetto quasi-cheese metal vocals and sing-along chorus, cool guitars (and lots of 'em), plus an album cover that allows my kids to look at a naked butt every time the song comes on my iPhone. It's a win-win-win, and I am completely unrepentant about my love for it. Tell me I'm wrong. Go ahead: I defy you.

THE ALAN PARSONS PROJECT: Don't Answer Me
Why has everyone forgotten this song? Yeah, anyone can hum you a few bars of Eye in the Sky, but this was a waaaaay more interesting piece of work: a wonder of instant nostalgia and broken hearts, fusing together Phil Spector's Wall of Sound with the spirit (if not the voice) of Roy Orbison to create something timeless. And that's not even counting the video, which (for my money) is just as fascinating and visually innovative as a-ha's much more famous Take On Me. But I didn't buy this song for the video... I bought it for the song. I remember being moved by its almost cinematic take on romance falling apart - "Don't answer me... don't break the silence, don't let me win..." - and I'll be damned if all these years later, it doesn't still work small miracles. Wow.

QUEENSRYCHE: Silent Lucidity
Still, easily, the all-time winner of the coveted "Best Usage of the Word Lucidity in a Song Title" award. What can I say? Yeah, I realize that it's an update of Comfortably Numb much in the same way that Take A Picture is a kind of updated Solsbury Hill... but I can't help it: I get sucked in every time. And more than that, Silent Lucidity has one of those snippits of song that's remained stuck and resonant in my head forever. Do you have any idea of what I'm talking about? Maybe it's just me, but I find that above and beyond my normal (sorry: I realize my definition of "normal" may differ from, uh, everybody's) obsession with music and memory for songs, lyrics, melodies... it's like there's also a Twitter version of that memory — one that seizes a five- or ten-second snippit of a song and lodges it in my brain, where from time to time it becomes dislodged unexpectedly and swims to the forefront of my consciousness, at which point it starts playing over and over and over again and begins to move and/or motivate me in strange and wonderful ways.

Anyhow, Silent Lucidity is one of those songs that's become Twitterized and lodged in my brain for... what, 15+ years now? Specifically, the part where Geoff Tate's voice momentarily grows a little more gentle and he sings, "A soul set free to fly..."

I don't know why that's stuck with me for so long, but it has.

Anyhow. More to follow. Eventually.

06:12 PM | Permalink

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Plus, you know: it's cool as hell.

(shudder)

I don't know why that's stuck with me for so long, but it has.

Anyhow. More to follow. Eventually.

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.