* The Boy Bathing, at NOIR *

March 20 — 2008

Three scruffy dudes and a tall, blonde indie girl unload amps, speakers, guitars and drums from a van …

They set it all up in a raised window nook at the front end of a small art gallery …

They make pleasant chatter with the audience as they plug in, check sound and finalize the set list …

For the moment, nobody’s startstruck and nobody’s getting any of the so-called “rock-star treatment.” This is live music at its purest.

The band I went to see tonight at NOIR (http://hangatnoir.com) is neither the current big thing nor the next big thing. But, it’s something. At this moment, I know so little about The Boy Bathing (http://theboybathing.com) that I’m probably ill-equipped to be writing about them. Except … I like them, and if an entry in my piddly little blog can help them along, why not?

There were only 10 of us in the room when the show started, but The Boy Bathing gave us a performance worthy of an audience at least 10 times that number. You almost had to be grateful for it. Even so, vocalist/guitarist David Hurwitz took advantage of the intimacy. He began the show with an accoustic number, leaving the stage to stroll out among the chairs and sofas where we sat watching. A gutsy decision, I think, but a creative one too. It warmed the place up.

First impression: Hurwitz sings in an articulate, emo-folk gush that immediately recalls Bright Eyes’ Connor Oberst. I don’t want to say Hurwitz is inviting the inevitable comparisons to Omaha’s Dylanesque whiner, but he’d sure better get used to them. Fortunately, I happen to like most of Oberst’s work, so I fell right in line. I didn’t mind the similarity a bit.

It will take me a few spins of the band’s debut CD, “A Fire To Make Preparations,” to determine exactly what song Hurwitz was singing (“The Leaves”, I think) as he walked around, strumming his guitar and singing without a mic. After he finished it he joined his three bandmates on stage, and they launched into the show proper. I want to mention highlights, but again, I hadn’t heard any of the songs enough times before the show to have the necessary backround.

Still, I’m pretty sure album-opener “The Question’s Simple,” as well as LP-closer “The Fire” came out halfway through the show, with Hurwitz urging the audience (we’d swollen to 15 by then) to sing along with the refrain. A couple of songs that aren’t on the CD, “Wedding Song,” and a new one, called “House,” also made the setlist. The former is about being in love with a girl who’s marrying another man, the latter is about returning to one’s childhood home after another family has moved in, and trying to reconcile the experience with the person one has grown up to be.

On the three-year anniversary of the exact day my mother died, I found “House” welcome and poignant.

When the show wrapped, the band came off the stage and mingled with the small audience for at least a half hour, maybe longer. At a small art emporium like NOIR, there is no backstage, and that’s one of the nice things about the experience. The access. I shook hands with all four of them, even fooled myself into telling them about my music blog. The loved the name: Bluebird Street. I wish I’d gotten this entry in before they forgot about it.

I talked longest with the drummer, Matt Bogdanow, an affable, hairy-faced fellow. The band’s from New York City, and was working its way back East after playing the SxSW Festival in Austin, TX. They’ve made the entire round trip in a plain, ordinary-looking van. I asked Bogdanow, “What are your favorite places to stop and eat when you’re on the road?” His answer kind of surprised me: “We hit a lot of grocery stores. It’s cheaper that way. We’re getting really good at preparing meals inside the van.”

The long hours on the road, the constant, cramped proximity to each other; the out-of-way towns and small audiences, grocery stores and cold cuts, cheap motels, flat tires, the generosity of strangers … It’s not glamorous. But why should it be? You’ve got to chase the dream if you want to live the dream. I don’t know if The Boy Bathing will catch it, but I have nothing but admiration for them, for giving chase.

The Boy Bathing, working up a lather in Jacksonville:

March 20, 2008

AwesomeNess

I’m always prowling the internet looking for something to perk up my drab existence.

Often, it is music that comes to the rescue. Gosh. There is so much great stuff out there I would never have discovered, if I hadn’t been bored enough to go foraging for it. For example, this little bit from a band called Battles.

I found them a couple of months ago, on one of those year-end lists. I think it was PopMatters.com, which listed Battles’ track, “Atlas” as one of the best singles of 2007. I’m not a techno-head. Ok? I am not some math-rock uber geek, either. My leanings, as you’ll eventually learn, go heavily toward singer-songwriter stuff, strictly indie-pop and classic pop territory. Battles are not that at all. But this band, and especially this track, is just too freaking awesome to deny.

How to describe it? A dancehall tune for kick-ass robotrons, maybe? House-cleaning noise for meth-addicted housewives? Military music for an invading evil army of futuristic Nazi chipmunks? I tell you what. If I’m working in the promotions wing of, say, Mercedes or BMW, I’m on my knees right now, writing a check to Battles so I can use this track in future car commercials. When I play this in my car, and those drums come swooping in at the beginning, it’s an instant power trip.

Pity, this video for the “Atlas” single edits three minutes out of the original song. You’re gonna want all seven minutes. You’re gonna want them BAD.

One more thing, before you click the “play” arrow: Yes, those are real vocals being garbled in the track. And no, I don’t know or care what those vocals are singing. You won’t care, either.

A Crash Test Entry

Please pardon this latest pause in the action. I’m recovering from a nasty winter flu at the moment, finally upright at my keyboard again after several days in bed. Writing is a sure sign of recuperation, I think. Hopefully by week’s end, I’ll lose this cloud of cough-drop vapor that’s been hovering around my head and obscuring my thoughts.

For better or worse, many of my thoughts lately have circled this new blog. Bluebird Street. I’m proud of it so far, though I’m not sure I’ve set myself upon the path I intended to follow. I wanted to create a place where I could come and, you know, just GEEK OUT on records, songs, albums and artists I admire. I cannot even listen to my iPod anymore without compiling notes in my head about what I’m hearing; the exact words I’ll use to reveal the brilliance of a track and stir a reader’s curiosity about it. Had I written these thoughts down, I’d be much further along than I am now — but even if I did, why would anybody care?

In a digital universe where “music blogs” and “music sites” are literally everywhere, who’s gonna care what I say? And why should they? Thousands of similar bloggers are already light years ahead of me, and yet, it is still rather the exception (and not the norm) that people come to new and exciting music through internet blogs. I’d wager that most of us are resistant to new music. We go through life sort of allowing songs to attach themselves to us, by accident, by association or through sheer osmosis. This is why record companies used to (or maybe still do) value airplay so much. The more ubiquitous a song can be, the more likely it is to become a hit. Which, of course, makes the song even more inescapable.

We are used to developing our musical tastes this way, I guess. I mean, in late 1992 and early 1993, you were either going to love Whitney Houston’s remake of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” or you were going to hate it. There was no way in hell you were going to escape that song, because it was everywhere. If you don’t want to go out and find good music, then lay back and the corporate media will spoon feed it to you. If you like it, great. If you don’t, there’ll be another movie soundtrack blockbuster along shortly, so sit tight. You get the idea.

Ever made friends with somebody who just had to pawn their music off on you? I bet you have. And have you ever just KNEW you’d hate your friend’s music? Even before you heard it? Here’s a quick true story: In the summer of 1993, I took a three-hour car ride with a beautiful girl, a coworker who I had a serious crush on. Though I was attached at the time (soon to be married, in fact), I couldn’t wait to get to know this girl better, so I jumped at the chance to carpool with her to a sales seminar. Just as we were hitting the expressway, she goes, “How about we crank some tunes?” Wow, I thought. Hell, yes, let’s rock. So she reaches under her car seat and produces a Crash Test Dummies CD, the one with that annoying “Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmm” song on it.

Oh. You’re curious, are you? Here’s the video then, Mr. (or Miss) Short-Attention Span. Take a break and watch it, if you must.

Wait. Let me be fair. I could handle that song. I’d heard it often enough, seen the video about 400 times on MTV. Fine. Surely, she’d pop the disc out after that song was done, and she’d put in something cool. But no. As soon as “Mmmm, Mmmm” faded out, she turned to me, breathlessly enthused, and crowed “I LOVE this next song!” and turned it up even louder. And so it went, song after song, each and every one of them the same mid-tempo, crooning-frog downer as the last one. By the end of the CD, I had motion sickness from those queasy, croaked vocals blaring at me all day, and this beautiful woman, who I’d once framed in fantasy, suddenly became a person I wanted to avoid at all costs.

There were more CDs under her car seat. I didn’t want to know what they were.

The point of the story is this: I don’t want to be HER. I don’t want to be the closet nerd who won’t let go of your arm, who sprays spittle against your cheek while espousing the awesomeness of some band, or singer, that you wish would die in a fire. When I ask myself, “Why should anyone care what I like?” I think about that. I like Elliott Smith. Big deal, right? Up to now, maybe you’ve never even heard of him. Maybe you don’t even like the sound of his name. Maybe you’ve read enough here to decide that my taste is questionable, at best. It’s nothing personal. It happens.

This is why my site, Bluebird Street, will often read more like a sort of biography than a regular music blog. I realize I’m not an expert and I’m quite sure I’m not going to break any big music news here, or hook anyone into the latest buzz. I do love music, though. Naturally, I want to share some of my favorites with you. And, I have some personal stories to tell that are inextricably tied to certain songs or albums. One day, I’ll tell you my “Hey Jude” story, how it’s one of my favorite Beatles songs and yet, I haven’t been able to listen to it for the past 20 years.

Eventually, I hope to come to a better understanding of myself by writing this blog. Somehere down the road, these stories of my life might intertwine with song or album reviews I share. If I happen to make a connection with you at various points along the way, then none of this will be a waste.

I hope you’ll keep checking in. And if you like what you’re reading, tell your friends.

If you don’t like what you’re reading, then I hope the Crash Test Dummies will record their next album under your bed.

Drop the Needle

It started early for me. When I was four years old, I got my own bedroom. Later, as a reward for staying in my room at night (and not attempting to sneak into bed with my mom and dad), I got my own record player. Actually, my DAD got a brand new record player, but decided to move the old one into my bedroom. Either way, yippee.

My parents were young, beautiful, deeply-flawed individuals. You’ll meet them later. For now, you must know that my father was a disc-jockey, so he had a constant supply of record albums and 45-rpm singles flooding in where he worked. Invariably, many of them ended up at our house, and if my dad didn’t like them, or lost interest in them, or had too many copies of the same song, or whatever, those records found their way to my bedroom.

ASIDE: When I was five, I couldn’t tie my own shoes. I’d watch my mom or my dad tie them for me, and I’d lose my breath at how easy they made it look. Impatiently, my dad would mutter, “Brian, you’re almost six goddamn years old so you’d better learn to tie your own goddamn shoes now WATCH ME!” and here’s what I saw: moving fingers, moving shoelaces and then PRESTO! my shoes were tied. And my feet hurt because Dad yanked too hard on the shoestrings. “You got it?” He’d ask me then. “You see how I do it? You see??” Terrified, I’d nod my head. I’d bust out crying if I tried to speak.

I couldn’t tie my shoes. But I could lay that needle on the record. I’d carefully slide the shiny black record out of its paper sleeve, hold it by its edges with both hands, gently set it on the turntable and flip the switch from OFF to ON, producing that always audible “frip!” sound, followed by a low hum from the speakers. It gave me goosebumps. Then I’d lift the needle arm over to the edge of the spinning vinyl — slowly, cautiously, my tongue pressed between my lips — and set it down.

Then wait, wait, just a few seconds. I’d hear it begin. The strum of a guitar. The striking of drums. The first falling notes of a piano. Maybe a horn of some kind, like a trumpet. Or just a voice, alone with me in the room, waiting for the music to join in. Or I’d hear a bunch of things all at once, a wave of sounds rolling out and over me, taking over my room, my entire little world. Hours would pass.

I didn’t know then that those were mostly the records my dad deemed unworthy of airplay. Were they too weird? Too obscure? Not catchy enough? Not getting enough advance hype from their labels? It didn’t matter, because I played them over and over until each one became a glowing gem to me. One summer Saturday, my enthusiasm for one particular record got the best of me. I ran out of my room to show the record to my dad.

“Dad! Dad! I love this song! I want you to hear this, it’s my favorite! Play it on the big stereo I want you to hear it! Dad!”

In the living room, my mom was asleep on the sofa. My dad, half-dressed and half-asleep in his recliner, slowly turned toward me and took the record from my hand. He glanced at it, gave it back to me and sighed, “Well … you’re five.” Then he returned his focus to the baseball game he’d been watching on TV, as if I wasn’t still standing there.

The record, I remember to this day, was Carl Douglas’s “Kung-Fu Fighting.” As I stood there with the record in my hand, waiting for my dad to say something else, my heart started to sink. He didn’t like it. Didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t even care that I liked it. I stood there a few more minutes, gazing up at him, pleading silently for him to look at me again. He didn’t. So I shuffled back to my room, shut my door and threw the record under my bed. I never played it again.

A few months later, though, that song was everywhere. It got so popular that my dad HAD to play it on the radio, at least once every two hours. And I’m sure that every time he dropped the needle on it at work, he thought of me. Without knowing it, I had picked a hit record that he’d completely missed, and though he never liked that song (nowadays, I don’t blame him), he began to open up to me about music in ways that still make me feel so lucky.

He even took me to concerts with him and introduced me to some of the biggest stars of that time.

But those stories, if I ever get around to telling them, will come later.

She’ll Decide What She Wants

Welcome to Bluebird Street. If you’re reading this post, then you’re probably one of the first netters to find this bloglet of mine. It could also mean that you’re already a close friend, and you’ll excuse me if this inaugural entry feels awkward.

Feel free to read that top paragraph again. It took me 25 minutes to write it. To get myself in the mood to write about music, I decided to put on some tunes, and I made the mistake of choosing Elliott Smith’s excellent 1997 disc “Either/Or” — an album I’ve not listened to all the way in at least three years. It distracted me, beguiled me and then sucked me right into its moonlit, sepia-toned landscape of slow burning sadness.

Such detours haven’t been (and won’t be) helpful to my blogging career, but they remind me of why I have started this Bluebird Street site. I spend so much time thinking about music, maybe I should try and write about it. Maybe. I’ve considered it for years, but frankly, the idea has intimidated me as much as it enticed me — like catching sight of a sleek, mysterious woman in a bookstore, then trying to work up the nerve to approach her. This could be a fantastic relationship if I can get it off the ground. But what if my inner geek hijacks me and takes over? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I say too much? Or worse, what if I introduce myself and then find myself fumbling to keep up my end of the conversation?

The ‘what ifs’ have had their say for too long already. This is why I’m here now, standing before you all with palms a’ sweating, lips a’ trembling and eyes sparkling. Can we meet up again sometime soon?

This CD I’m hearing tonight is nearly done with its third repeat playing. I’ve come to track No. 11 (out of 12) and our singer, Elliott Smith, is staggering off to some predawn wasteland with his heart (and ours) thoroughly smashed.

“I’m walking out on center circle,
The both of you can just fade to black.
I’m walking out on center circle
Been pushed away and I’ll never go back.”

– “2:45 a.m.”

In a minor stroke of brilliance, Smith follows this, and closes “Either/Or” with the album’s only hopeful track, a dusty beam of light refracted through broken glass and tear-stained eyes.

“I’m in love with the world, through the eyes of a girl,
Who’s still around the morning after …”

This track’s fragile optimism only underscores the quiet wreckage on the rest of the album, and is all the more majestic for it. The title, “Say Yes,” comes late in the song, a sighing plea for acceptance that, as I begin this blog, I can more than relate to. Will I be another fool, or an exception to the rule?

Have a listen, and please do come back. We can make this work, baby.

Lyrics

Additional review of “either/or”

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!