Japanske grammofonplader

I haven't written anything in a while because I haven't listened to anything new in a while. Actually, to be honest, it started with something new -- Change of Heart, the first single from El Perro del Mar's upcoming EP. (Stream here; buy (soon) here.) It's old-sounding and beautiful, and I know it's only February, but this one could be the song of the year, easy.

It's catchy and addictive, and it made me want to something old and scratchy. I started with the Bee Gees (whose earlier stuff is amazing) and quickly moved on to a Telerad comp album called 24 Original Happening Hits. Judging from the appearance of the cover, the ages of my aunts (from whom many of my weirder records were inherited), and the release dates of the individual songs themselves, I'm guessing it was released in the mid-sixties. The 24th happening hit (the last track on side two) is my new favorite song. It's by a group I'd never heard of (though I know I've listened to the album before; I guess I must have never paid attention to songs I didn't already recognize), the Chantels. The song was their biggest hit. It came out in 1958. It's called Maybe. The lyrics are nearly unintelligible, but the sound and the message are not - and it's sad, so sad. It's fifty years old, and I don't care -- this is how music is supposed to sound. Beautiful song. (Stream (a different version) at last.fm.)

But since I can't listen to the same two-minute song over and over without having to get up to move the needle every two minutes, I decided eventually to try and listen to something else. This brings me to the Japanese bootlegs. Among my vinyl inheritance were a number of strangely packaged imports in plastic sleeves and monochromatic cases, some of which bore the Universal Records logo, many of which do not, and one of which was attributed to Nancy Siatra, and the omission of the N is not my spelling error.

My favorites of this collection actually came as a set. They lived in what was, by the time I got it, a slightly sunken grime-encrusted cardboard box, and were smaller than ordinary albums (the same size, actually, as 78s, though they play at 33 rpm), pressed on translucent red vinyl. Originally there were ten; now there are only five, plus an unplayable sixth, retained for reasons unknown, which melted at some point before my time into a shape roughly similar to a newsboy hat, and which no longer fits in the box. The surviving records are great. I remember sequestering myself in the family room and listening through each one after I first got them. It was the first time I heard the Small Faces (and probably countless others). It was the first time in years that my dad had heard a song he remembered playing for ten cents on a jukebox, a song which I later found someplace weird and bought on 7" (and which somebody has put up with a really bad video on youtube, but which should still be listened to).

Of course it was these albums that, when faced with a desire to listen to something old yet new, that I went for - but I discovered, to my dismay, that they were not here. I must have decided, for a now-unknown reason (possibly related to not wanting to contaminate my apartment with their filthy storage box) to leave them at my parents' house. Now I'm annoyed, upset, and slightly afraid that something might happen to them -- those aren't the kind of things you ever find again.

But anyway. New music. Aside from the aforementioned El Perro del Mar track, Jesper Norda also released an EP, We Have the Guts, last week. It's piano-based as before, and, I think, even better than the previous EP. The title track, six and a half minutes long, is great, but my favorite track is the first one, Let's go to a place infected with truth and resist with all of our hearts. It's gentle and calm for the first three minutes; then there's a sudden crescendo before the last bit, and for a few seconds it's just pounding, intense. This man can play the piano. The entire We Have the Guts EP, which, I must add, flows very well together as one cohesive unit, is also available for download in the Jesper Norda archives.

Next week I will write something else, perhaps on the horrific possibility of not becoming deaf but suffering amusia, which I think would be even worse.

--DL--
Let's go to a place infected with truth and resist with all of our hearts (Jesper Norda)

Den svensk popstjerne

Lykke Li is approximately 20 blocks away from me right now. This makes the third time she’s been to Portland in the past year. I haven’t seen her on any of these occasions, nor did I see her set at the Roskilde Festival this summer (as I probably ought to have done). In fact, I have as of today only ever heard two of her songs, for a grand total of maybe five plays. I never intended to actively avoid her, I was just never interested. And now she’s become one of my “records” -- like not having been to a movie theater in five years, not having driven a car in nearly three, and (this one is entirely without reason) absolutely, point-blank, no exceptions refusing to listen to the Long Blondes, even though all evidence points to a high probability of my liking them.

But that is that. I am always annoyed when small bands I like become wildly popular (the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, anyone?) so I’m probably the last person to start listening to someone simply because she’s the new Swedish sensation and therefore someone I should know about. So no Lykke Li for me. I’d take the snark and swagger of Ida Maria (Norwegian, yes, I know) over her any day. Or, staying Swedish, Robyn. How about that trip to Portland she promised she’d reschedule? Again -- any day.

Endeligt programmet (på engelsk)

There’s no way to break this gently.

The radio show is over. The last hour was last Wednesday evening, January 28. If I’d stuck it out until today (February 4), like I originally planned to do, the last show would have marked the fifth anniversary of my radio debut. I’m sad to have missed it, just like I’m sad to have given up my show, but the station had become too unpleasant a place for me to be. Maybe in time, I’ll make my way back onto the air, but as for now… it doesn’t much look like it.

I also can’t say how frequently I’ll update this blog in the future. Much as I hate to say it, I’m kind of burned out on music right now. I’ve been listening to the same six or eight bands and albums over and over. (If I were scrobbling, my last.fm neighbourhood -- and charts -- would be all messed up by now.) It’s all very good music, but I can’t seem to get myself to care much about it, and I care even less about everything else.

These albums are getting lots of spinning:
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea – Neutral Milk Hotel
All Hail West Texas – the Mountain Goats
Forever Changes – Love
Takk… – Sigur Rós
Chain Gang of Love and Lust Lust Lust – the Raveonettes

There’ve been some digressions, but they generally happen when I’m really not paying attention (as opposed to only sort of not paying attention) and just want some sort of background noise, and they generally tend to be bands and/or albums that sound some degree of similar to one or more of the artists mentioned above.

Anyway, now that I’ve listened to Two-Headed Boy Part 2 at least ten times in a row, I feel ready to… I don’t know. I just wanted to point out that I’ve now listened to Two-Headed Boy Part 2 at least ten times in a row. It's that bad.

Tonight, while the automix plays bad 80s music during the timeslot my show used to occupy, I will be spending the first of many now-free Wednesday evenings in one of my favorite places, Powell’s City of Books, in the company of one of my current favorite authors, Lauren Groff. I know that, due to length, it’s very likely that she won’t, but I hope she reads “Majorette.”

I have a book blog. (I would say “I have a book blog now,” but I’ve actually had it for more than a year.) If I become too negligent with Ashtrays, and you still crave my writing, you can read it here.