allo allo. Hope everyone's thank-full celebrations were all you ever dreamed of. General overindulgence, drunken brawls with disconnected friends from high school and long, intensively uncomfortable silences over that second serving of squash pie as your mother looks on disapprovingly. Pilgrims might not be real, but it's the spirit of the season that counts.
I could be forcing my thoughts concerning My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasyon you right now, but Mondays don't allow for it. Sorry. Get a lusty earfulof Cee-Lo's class and soulful vibrato covering Band of Horses instead. While you're listening I'll be doing my best booty-drop this side of the laptop - considering limited materials.
Macaron-light vocals (Allison Straton) peeping out from akimbo guitar and steel bass (Moxham brothers) were things of revolution back in '78. The post-punk act from Cardiff, Wales loosely hold hands whilst taking us on a voyeuristically eerie journey. Helluva single-take crane shot to boot.
Shoegazers with exceptional hooks, Sports was released November 9 on the Slumberland label. If it's defined a lo-fi or noise, I'd like to think it's just that poured through some cheesecloth. Distilled to something a little more potent. Pupil dilation inevitable.
Majorly stoked about these recent immigrants to the RVA scene. Brandi Price and Kyle Harris are the core to this psychedelically tribal thrum. Originating in Athens, GA, a rotating cast took them across state lines to Lubbock, TX where they recorded and released their second official LP,My Only Companion. Brief cameos of house pets and gatherings of friends to stomp, clap and holler make for a crafty album, full of voodoo percussion and Price's brass bell vocals.
Now calling RVA home, you'll see them this coming Sunday at Strange Matter.Feathered headdresses and peyote cactus chew will likely fit in fine.
Speaking of mcKay, he bears a near-uncanny resemblance to Bryce Dessner {....or is it Aaron? shit} of the The National. Whom I lovelovelooooove. A lot. Both of them. mcKay and The National. And this chair dance. And eating dry cereal, preferably Shredded Spoonfuls. My heart nearly bursts with all this g-d terrible love.
Not like you haven't heard it a billion times this year, but for the sake of it.
You'll notice my name isn't the sole listing as contributor to this 1-Trick Pony of a posting vessel. David Mckay, who posts about as often as I wash my hair on the weekends, has been a hard-working sonova this past year. He quit his safe and comfy job as an art director in the advertising world and proceeded to pour blood, sweat and tears into a black void known to a choice few as Endie Filmmahkin'. His own, and a number of poached liters from a number of cute & cuddly creatures.
Countless iterations of a script, sinkholes of WTF-am-I-doing, blistering moments of soul-sustaining creativity, several months worth of frustrated outbursts from his girl {cough.} and a spontaneously combusting credit card brings him to this precipice - the finish of the film is just within reach.
It took a group of fantastic people, true dedication and artistic vision to make it happen. If you have a few quarters in your pocket, help him see this through at his Kickstarter page. Maybe then I can stop carrying him piggyback on ES, and would get a datenight some place other than Arby's. If I have to eat any more curly fries, I will punch a baby.
John O, you are fun with a capital R A I N B O W U N I C O R N I C I N G.
Glitter napalming you from Toronto, John O grew up this side of jock before ditching the athlete's foot to fully embrace a well-sequined pair of ballet slippers. A boy of many talents, at a young age he managed to pack in piano, football, guitar, basketball, saxophone, and dress-up seshes pulling from the Tickle Trunk all before he was legal. Makes for an understandably difficult search-for-self growing up. "Are my friends goths or goalies? Punks or pointguards?"
You could presume John O leaned hard in one direction, eventually leading to the October release of Special Affections. Sort of. The other direction isn't too terribly far behind him, which makes for an ecstatically-camp wtf outburst over the "Show Me Your Stuff" music video. Might need 9 more views before I decide if my teeth hurt from irritable grinding or cavity-inducing sugar rush.
Regardless, the grating baritone over excitable synth has me dancing all the way to the color copier.
Peter Silberman of The Antlers / Hospice recognition covered one of my all time favorite songs on this Earf, "Waves" by Holly Miranda. It kinda makes me want to die; in the most painless, cotton-soft, seagull swooning way possible.
I don't flirt nearly enough with the local scene, with the exception of my dedicated groupie-attentions to Autocue. No longer! I'm completely diverting my eyes from the PacNW and Brooklyn scene, and lay gaze solely upon RVA.
That is total horseshit malarkey, but I do intend to love on my citymates more.
This coming Sunday, Nov. 14, let's meet up for some grenache at Ipanema and check out Lydia Ooghe. Her songs are stuff of sugar and batting, helium-balloon pop on acoustic guitar and occasional pedal steel. And she looks a-freaking-dorable. By my professional estimation, she's impressing the River City with her talents and gracefully sunny stage presence. We shall see, Lydia.
Some article mentioned Houses, the OTHER Houses (remember the opiate drifting I promised yesterday?), had some of the same hebetudinous haze of Washed Out. You know how I feel about Washed Out. Woof. So of course I'm down.
Chicago bliss-pop lovebirds Dexter Tortoriello and Megan Messina wrote nearly all of the October-released All Night in one week. Show-offs. I guess some time and inspiration living off the grid in Hawaii will do that to you. Signed to Lefse, same label as Neon Indian and How to Dress Well, their chillwave sound is a natural fit. What is not a natural fit is implemented imperfections to emote vinyl. LBH Houses, you're on a Mac powerbook. I'm not expecting any 45s from you this Christmas. But thanks anyway. Very thoughtful.
Houses the band is not the first of it's namesake, and not an easy one to hone in on. I'm still not sure if I'm writing about a chillwave husband/wife duo or eight merrymakers who got ripped a new one for joking aboutSwitchfoot. {for seri, read the comments, it gives me second-hand embarrassment and adds to my monthly urge to disconnect, delete my FB account and never look at the Internets again}. To clarify for the group: merrymahkin today, opiate drift tomorrow.
Andy & Kinsey Hamilton, crunchy cuties, are the first two lego blocks of the Denver, CO ensemble. If you like We Are Magic and long for Crosby, Stills & Nash, you're pretty set. Over 2009 they recorded and released an album per season in it's evocation; an upbeat Spring, rock'n'roll Summer, etc use your context clues. People seem to dig their live shows, "will leave you covered in goosebumps and ready to f*cking wrestle a buffalo." Little did they know I already wrestle a f*cking buffalo, on Thursday nights in Chesterfield. And I listen to Switchfoot while I do it. Chew on that!
Man on the Moon, Vol. II: the Legend of Mr. Rager dropped today. Who is Cudder? Mr. DoLo Loner? Teeny bop heartthrob? Kanye protege? Maybe you need to chill the f*ck out, smoke some get some make straight A's and wait to see where on the moon this man will land.
By the decree of the Purple Falcon by the order of Lord Darcy, under the darkness of a new moon and Steak-Um on the cafeteria menu - every Monday from henceforth on this vessel shall be Under the Covers Monday. Heark, hear ye and open sesame.
A little extry and easily related BECAUSE... Dominant Legs is featured in the music video premiere from Tamaryn. And she's in there, too. I owed you one from earlier in the week, anyway, so now we're squares in circle chairs. Pardon me while I stab a #2 in to my cornea.
A quickety-split trick to leave you with this Friday. SF native Ryan William Lynch leads with the right with his ramble-jangle reedy sound. Funky jazz with some carribean 80's flat-top, pop razor lines on the side over the ears. Slick it back with some melancholy LA Looks gel and head out the door. I could think of a handful of artists to relate him to, but the sound is oddly more of his own. How often does that happen? How often does a guy look far better with a flower over his ear than I do? Crap.
To add fuel to my defeated flames, an old friend from ago turned me on to this bobo blog. It has stanky hepster written all over it. Maybe if I stop wearing babypowder fresh deodorant I can funk it up like them one day.
A young man wanders along salt roughened Irish cliffs, returning to a cabin teetering over the sea. Over a season's change, he writes lyrical prose of ghosts and loves, towering trees and keening winds. He recalls times of great change and scrawls their desertion in rushed strokes of ink, spatters bleeding through the paper's fiber.
He returns to Dublin and squints into the glare of a life lancing forward, rushing past him as water breaks around the rock. He holds in his hand a humble EP, nothing much but a man and his words playing instruments in a solitary room. It is February of this year.
once i had a dream once i had a hope that was yesterday not so long ago this is not the end this is just the world such a foolish thing such an honest girl James Vincent McMorrow // If I Had a Boat
Cee-Lo Green // No One's Gonna Love You
Young Marble Giants // Final Day
Weekend // End Times
AC Newman // Take On Me
The Diamond Center // Wtt {Live at Ipanema 19}
The National // Terrible Love
Diamond Rings // You & Me
Peter Silberman // Waves
Lydia Ooghe and Lux Vacancy // Baby Yay
Houses // Reds
Houses // Red Feather
KiD CuDi // Maybe
Rogue Wave // Everyday (Buddy Holly Cover)
Tamaryn // Dawning
Dominant Legs // Just Silly Ones
Slow // Twin Shadow
James Vincent McMorrow // If I Had a Boat