Releasing limited edition artwork with a CD-R labeled “For Legal Reasons, enclosed CD-R contains no music. Use it as you will.” Brilliant.
Danger Mouse = cat.
Music industry = mouse.
Streaming on NPR.
Releasing limited edition artwork with a CD-R labeled “For Legal Reasons, enclosed CD-R contains no music. Use it as you will.” Brilliant.
Danger Mouse = cat.
Music industry = mouse.
Streaming on NPR.
Walking home from the subway, lugging a heavy hard drive on one shoulder and a new pair of shoes on the other, I heard a woman belting – belting! – Home On The Range in a glorious operatic voice, vibrato thick and slow, phrasing paced as though to coincide with the stop lights.
Beautiful. Awesome.
Very strange to walk into a Barnes and Noble at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning and hear – at a decent volume – Depeche Mode’s Just Can’t Get Enough followed by Def Leppard’s Hysteria.
Heck, it was a galldarn pleasure after my weekend of shopping in which I suffered deplorable pre-programmed retail schlock, the best of which was Beyonce shrilling shrieking in my ear as I tried on shoes, and the worst of which sounded like dollar bin rejects from Lite FM mashed-up with the background music for late night adult phone line infomercials with tuned-up vocals by Akon wannabes.
Is this what copyright law has done to us? Forced us to endure terrible, terrible in-store music when all we want to do is buy a new pair of jeans and some sunglasses?
Explanation for lengthy absence: work. Mixing, editing, de-noising, bouncing, syncing, then waking up and doing it all over again. I’ve been mixing a series of educational videos for a website that is scheduled to launch in less than a month. I primarily work with music, so it’s been refreshing and educational to work with sync sound and to focus on things like matching noise floors, balancing dialogue levels and laying in foley.
But my heart is in the volatile yet comforting music world, so even though I’ll go a week or two commuting with a book or a public radio podcast instead of music on my iPod, I always come back.
My iPod is currently a mish-mash of high-octane tracks from my Gym Mix (Timberlake, Stefani, Air, Lily Allen…) and old timey, folk, hokum, hillbilly tracks from Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Music and digitized, nearly-forgotten 78s that circulate on the web. My husband is to blame (or thank – jury’s still out) for introducing me to the Hoosier Hot Shots and Captain Stubby and the Buccaneers. All of which makes for endlessly amusing shuffling while standing in crowded subway cars.
Our current favorite: Meet Me Tonight In The Cowshed
Sample lyric:
When Betsy and Sally and Mary say “Moo!” / That means they are lonesome and mooing for you.
Second runner-up: She Broke My Heart In Three Places
There is a bird outside my window tweeting the opening riff to EMF’s 1991 hit Unbelievable.
I’m learning to play this on the guitar and love that you can find these video clips on YouTube.
“Really, what’s the difference between Billy Joel and Elvis Costello?”
“Billy Joel has bad taste.”

Guilty?

Innocent?
The scene: Saturday night after guitar class, I walked into the bar next door. There were two guys in the back ordering each other beers and playing pool. I sat alone at the bar with a half-price Brooklyn chocolate stout (it was happy hour!) and a copy of Wax Poetics, waiting for my husband. When he arrived, the bar had begun to fill up, and the music had gotten louder. We sharpened our darts and moved to the back to aim at triple 20s and bull’s-eyes for awhile. There was an mp3 jukebox, but tracks cost a dollar apiece, which is an absurd price, even given the vast selection. (We were duped into paying a dollar to hear one track off of The Pretty Things’ S.F. Sorrow). The other patrons seemed aware of this jukebox scam, so the bar was listening to the bartender’s iPod, and the bartender was playing Billy Joel. Not Uptown Girl or Movin’ Out or even Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits. A full album – I’m not sure which one – of late 70s, possibly early 80s Billy Joel tracks. When was the last time you – or anyone – listened to a full Billy Joel album? And the thing is, with his jumpy, slightly snotty vocals and snappy, reverby drum beats, it might as well have been Elvis Costello. Except then the indulgent yet banal piano solo would come in and the song would veer off into mediocre musical platitudes. Quite simply, the man has no taste.
I’m not an Elvis Costello fan. Partly because I’m not a fan of obsessive Elvis Costello fans. I don’t understand why he gets put on a pedestal for being a new wave punker in Buddy Holly glasses. However, I will give him this: he’s no Billy Joel.
After we’d finished our tete-a-tete darts tournament (husband handily won, 4 games to 2), we decided on a whim to go back to Jalopy to see whoever was on the bill.
Billy and Elvis be damned. We were blown away. Andy Laster’s Cast A Spell Trio wove mesmerizing modal jazz; I wanted to follow each note. Then Dean Bowman performed jazz-tinged spirituals with heart-stopping soul; his voice is utterly transporting.
It’s Saturday. Dare I try for a repeat?
The Island by The Millennium. The first song that shuffled on my iPod as I hurried home from work to watch Lost. Decidedly creepy. I listened to it three times in a row.
Tonight in the Union Square subway station:
1) a bucket drummer wailing away near the 4 / 5 / 6 trains
2) a bagpiper wandering in the passageway
3) two more bucket drummers pounding in unison on the downtown Q / N / R / W platform
4) a mediocre flutist playing off sheet music, also on the downtown Q / N / R / W platform
The flutist and bucket drummers should have coordinated.
Cacophony aside, I have noticed a sharp increase in subway buskers lately. I guess the economic downturn has caused a lot of folks to cancel their music lessons and slow down session work and composition commissions.
Unrelated: I deleted all the music from my iPod so I can start anew.
I grew up in Wyoming. The whistling and howling of the wind through cracks in my bedroom window was a formative (and often terrifying) childhood experience. Now, I sometimes crack my windows to create a similiar sound. Now, the shrieking of the wind is comforting.