Ouch. That’s Hot.

Some books I read because I think I should…

(currently Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead — I’ve been self-describing as a Libertarian Sympathizer for long enough that I figure I should read the basic texts. It’s like being a Christian without reading the Bible, a Trotskyite without reading Marx, a Scientologist having never watched Travolta rock Battlefield Earth. However, based on the speed at which I’m making it through Ayn Rand, it would seem that my commitment to the Objectivist Mind is on thin ice. See Obama, below.)

Some books I read because they’re good fun…

(recently Election — If you liked the movie, you’ll love the book. Heck, if you’ve ever been to High School you’ll love the book. It’s pretty hard not to have a good time with this one. Of course you could skip it and just watch the movie. They provide a similar experience, and the book lacks the topless and puffy Matthew Broderick shower scene.)

Some books I read because they’ve been passed on by good friends…

(currently The Audacity Of Hope, Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream — I’ve never read one of these election year ghost-written rush jobs before, but I’m giving this one a try. Mr. Obama comes across as a pretty decent fellow. I’m not sure he’s actually going to bring any of his patented “Yes We Can! Change!” along if he makes it to the White House — or even if I want him to — but it will be interesting to see him give it a try. My lack of faith in politics in general makes me sympathetic to Ms. Rand, but I’m always willing to take chance on something new. How much harm can one man do in four years anyway?)

Some books I read because my friends are moving to Tanzania…

Such is the case with By The Sea, by Abdulrazak Gurnah. Not quite technically a Tanzanian himself, Gurnah hails from Zanzibar, a semi-autonomous island fiefdom off the coast of Africa which lends its “zan” to Tanzania. (The rest of the post-colonial nation consists of the much larger mainland Tanganyika.)

Wise counsel has stated that the best way to understand a new place is to chew on some good fiction from the region. In the past I’ve hypocritically nodded in agreement. Now I’ve given it a try. And now I nod vigorously with heartfelt advocation of the practice.

However, if you want to understand By The Sea, you must dig up your old Anthology of American Literature, Volume I (we’ve all got one, right?) and re-read Bartleby, The Scrivener by Herman Melville. Why must I make you suffer so? Because it’s the fried-nerved suffering of Bartleby that brings comfort to the late-life refuge seeking Saleh Omar.

Like Bartleby, Saleh has reached the point where he “prefers not to.” He’s given up. He’s watched everything he’s worked for end up like one of The Scrivener’s dead letters, but lost to a more malicious bureaucracy born of the vestiges of empires from the Arab to the English, who washed across his paradise island looking for loot and leaving complications.

He is now a refugee heading to England for the first time — to feel winter for the first time, and to be robbed of what little he still owns for the last time. And he rests at peace with this new condition.

He is not alone; he is merely not exempt. He is not exempt from a too-common fate of displacement, misfortune, and victimization. Sometimes this fate strikes an entire tribe or nation. Sometimes it hits one man at a time. Saleh’s story falls somewhere in between. Although his people have suffered at the hands of a greater machine (most recently the British Empire) his troubles arise out of the strife stirred up by family loyalties, business obligations, and local politicians gone bad.

In referencing Bartleby, we have a comparison with an Englishman stuck in America a hundred years earlier. With the inclusion of Jan and his mum we see the parallel lives of those displaced by the East German Iron Curtain. And in Rachel — spawned of generations of involuntarily nomadic Jews — we see again that no one is from just somewhere. Seems we’re all the descendants of turbulence and transition if you go back a little bit further. Do what you can where you are. Change is a-comin’.

(Note: More on the ongoing work in Tanzania: here here here.)

Taking the bait once again, I took a chance on Vampire Weekend. Hooked!

I try to ignore the shout-outs scattered through my monthly deluge of magazines. We’re talking serious publications here, you know, like Details. But every once in a while when everything from GQ to Wired mentions a new group worth checking out, I figure there must be a reason. Thus, I give a listen to Kanye West or John Legend or The Editors or The Bravery or someone else that I can live without. Usually, I can see why they’ve received such notice: Yes, the guy can really knock out a tune, or yes they really do sound like Interpol. But I don’t care and never spin ‘em again. Thankfully, I can jump online for the preview these days instead of dropping 10+ bones on something that I wouldn’t want to have paid for, even through BMG with a free shipping coupon.

But, every once in a while it works out. Vampire Weekend came up again and again as “Prep Rock.” The hell I know what that means. The reviews went on to point out that, yes, even though they are preppy kids from the Nor’east, you should listen to them anyway because they write great garage-y throwback tunes about the most important thing in life: Gettin’ Chicks and Havin’ Kicks.

Can’t say that’s what I found. What I found is what Chris DeVille from the Columbus Alive found. I had detailed notes and everything ready for this post, but Mr. DeVille beat me to it on all fronts. He also covered their recent show on his blog. I was not there. I was heading here instead. Oh, life. ‘Tis full of trade-offs.

But I did learn one thing from these guys that Chris overlooked: The Oxford Comma.  I think I’m starting to swoon.

Now that it’s February, I’m coming around on this one. Thy cynical side of me thinks that the Top-10 List is just a lazy way for editors to fill space. Most of the time the selections are either painfully obvious or hopelessly obscure. And then the competition begins to prove that your list is both painfully obvious while being hopelessly obscure. (”If you had any taste at all, you’d see how right I am about the brilliance, no the importance, of Deerhoof’s latest long-player.”)

But it’s also kinda fun, and I’m feeling frisky. So here’s my Top 10 List of albums new to me in 2007. It’s my blog, right? I can change the rules as I go.

1. Feist — Let it Die / The Reminder.

I’ve always had a thing for the understated female vocalist. Let it be known, Feist is now officially christened the new Queen and Heir to a proud tradition that started with an 8th grade crush on Edie Brickell. (Or maybe it was Judy Garland singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” when I was seven. I need to meditate on that for a bit.) I first heard her a year or so ago singing backup on The Kings Of Convenience’s “Riot On An Empty Street” (led by Erlend Øye who deserves a post of his own.) I read the liner notes and noted the name. How would I know it would turn into this?

“Let it Die” hooked me with it’s Sounds Of The 70’s fender rhodes / disco / steely-dan-with-a-DJ overlay. Truth be told, I loved it so much that The Reminder’s return to alt-folk form was a let down. But she showed me the light. She proved to me that she was right. And then I went to see her one magical night. AHHH!!! Next!

2. Perry Ferrell’s Satellite Party — Ultra Payloaded.

This almost made number one. But then I realized that it was a lie and that I was just being difficult. Jane’s has a special place in my heart. It’s a place formerly occupied by James Taylor, proving Darwin right. (Perry/SweetBabyJames cage match anyone?) Anyway, that place in my heart is so big and welcoming that I give any and all Jane’s Alumni a chance. I honestly liked Porno For Pyros, and I’ve purchased Dave’s solo album and Perry’s and the various compilations, and even Psi Com for heck of it. And I got into Strays, though no, it wasn’t Shocking.

Most of it was, eh, ok, and I expected little from this new project: a concept album about an interstellar alien rave thing. Lollapalooza in space. With guitar from Extreme. What I didn’t expect was 1) Songwriting 2) Fun. Much as I loved ‘em, Jane’s never had the best tunes. Catchy bass lines, you bet. Cool guitars, yep. Crazy lyrics with razor-sharp delivery, hecks yeah! But songs? Only sometimes. And they weren’t exactly fun. They were more like a baggy of magic mushrooms. A dose of Jane’s could be possibly pleasant and occasionally cathartic, but never simply fun.

But this trip is all that and more. C’mon, man. Give it a try.

3. Lou Reed — Transformer

There’s something about a good 70’s rock ‘n’ roll album that just begs me to hit repeat. Tape compression, the simple arrangements, the straight-froward production: a lot of 70’s rock just feels right to me. It feels like what it is — 4 guys and a few friends in a room making a record. When the smoke clears enough to see the producer, when the highs and lows of the night find their nocturnal bliss, somewhere in there rock ‘n roll happened like it never will again.

Lou made it happen for me on his second solo album, the Bowie/Ronson produced Transformer. He spun my iPod round and round like record player for most of the spring of ‘07. Transformer has the right mix (unlike The Blue Mask) between great pop and solid rock with enough sonic experiments to keep it interesting. No small amount of the album’s charm spurts forth from the subject matter: Sexual Deviation and Associated Emotional Frustration as embodied by NYC’s most colorful characters.

One thing that always strikes me is the proximity between this stuff and the Hippie Generation. We’re barely two years past Woodstock, but already the Flower-Powered 60’s are something that never were to the New Yorkers and Englishmen making this music.

Some vinyl cousins to consider: Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust & Young Americans (et al); Thin Lizzy’s Live & Dangerous (which according to Tony Visconti was mostly overdubs dubbed in said smoky rooms); T. Rex’s Electric Warrior; Television’s Marquee Moon… etc.

The last of the breed, in my once again ridiculous opinion, was Van Halen I in 1978. (As you may know, VH got a little help from Gene Simmons, a man who made his millions on a particularly schlocky extension of the Glam Rock so well represented above.) I’ll have to blog again about that, but moving on…

4. Tie! My Special Lady Friends: Lily Allen — Alright, Still; Kate Nash — Made Of Bricks; Jem — Finally Woken

Because I’m a slut. You’d think that Ms. Feist would be enough for a guy like me. But no, I just can’t seem to stay true. My new gals are presented here in chronological order.

The first breach of Leslie’s fortress was Lily with her lovely single “Smile.” I liked it so much that I took a chance on the rest of the album to find wit, charm, humor, and plenty of great afro-caribbean-laced tracks that would could easily earn a place in the SoundTrack of my soul or on the DanceFloor of my heart.

Kate Nash is the girl that you go out with because she reminds you of the girl you used to love. Then you realize that she’s not who you want her to be. So you dump her. And then you regret it as you learn to appreciate her for her own charms. She cops Lily’s mockney and heads to the mic armed with horribly confessional poetry. And it works. Mostly. I think…

So now that I’ve genuflected at the foot of Feist, had a blast with Lily, and then felt kind of guilty about the way I treated Kate, I’ve found redemption with Jem. I don’t know who she is, but she tells me to forget all rules, to ignore what “They” say, to “Come On Closer,” and find salvation in her “sweet temptation” whereby I’ll be “Finally Woken” as she begs someone to “Save Me” from herself.

I’m getting too old for this, but I just can’t seem to say no.

5. Amy Winehouse, Mark Ronson, Sharon Jones, and the unassailable Dap-Kings & Daptone crew.

Rare is the great achievement achieved alone. Let’s consider Tenzig Norgay. Had Sir Edmund Hillary any hope of mounting Everest without his help? Me thinks not!

So we start with you, Ms. Winehouse. I know that you’ve got your shit together. I know that you have the discipline and self-control to make it unaided to such great heights, but is there any chance that you had a little help from your friends?

Back to Black is an album that has continued to grow on me. At first, I thought it was a novelty. I almost just passed it on to my Motown-loving papa, but then I noticed the F-Bombs, which made me think of what else I might be missing. Turned out I was missing a lot, such as “Tears Dry On Their Own.” That song can hang with Supremes any day. I began to see that Amy might be the real deal, though 30 years out of phase.

So whence comes this authenticity? Ah yes: The Dap-Kings!

Like Irish Monks preserving civilization from the barbarous hordes, the Brooklyn collective at Daptone Records has huddled over the horn-charts and tube-powered tools of an earlier generation, lovingly keeping them polished and honed until the common man evolves enough to be trusted with them again. Add the super-glue of DJ flyboy Mark Ronson to stick it all together, and you’ve got a hit.

Also on board is Ms. Sharon Jones, who’s been covered here already. Take another listen to the bootleg posted here. Good stuff! I have yet to check out the Budos Band, but the next time they drive this way, I’ll be there. Basically, if it’s got the Taint of Daptone, it’s alright by me.

6. Of Montreal — The Sunlandic Twins / Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?

These guys are nuts. I like that. And they write fun songs that tap into a certain leftover adolescent ennui that makes you just want to throw in the towel and escape, maybe even to Antarctica. For example. I’ve heard the stage show is superb. Maybe someday they’ll play where I happen to be. Maybe even Antarctica. For Example.

7. Elis Regina & Antonio Carlos Jobim — Elis & Tom

Every summer demands a new discovery to accompany my many evenings filled with white wine & tapas on the patio. That’s summer at our house: nibbling & sipping & noshing & quaffing while children play delightedly at our feet and the fire crackles in the corner. Pure paradise, at least occasionally.

It started with Esquivel, moved through Stan Getz and Astrud Gilberto, and landed at Elis & Tom last summer. I’ve tried the cheesier side of life too: Herb Alpert, Sergio Mendes, etc., but the mood has to be just the wrong kind of right to relax to the Tijuana Brass. Coldplay works as well, but I don’t really want to think about that at the moment.

So back to Elis & Tom. This album was introduced to me as the one album that Brazilians of a certain generation are most likely to have on the turntable. Sort of the Nevermind of the Brazilian Boomers. It’s a delight. There’s an immediacy to the performances that is missing on Astrud’s take of some of the same material. Por ejemplo: Towards the end of “Aguas De Marco” there’s a moment where Elis can’t help but laugh. I don’t know what she’s laughing about. I don’t speak Portuguese. But it makes me smile. Oh, it makes me smile. Thank the Lord they didn’t wipe that take.

8. Tegan & Sara — The Con

I’m not sure if these ladies ever got big enough to “have a moment” but I had a moment with them last fall. It’s a heart on a sleeve with a keyboard and a guitar. Pop music needs no more.

9. The Hold Steady — Boys and Girls in America (and all the rest)

“She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.”

Bingo! And with that Craig Finn had me with 3 albums of the sort of mid-american dissipation that seemed eerily familiar. For some reason the songs always struck me as the view from the sidelines. This I could also relate to, as I was never the most punk-rock, hard-core, screw-it-i’m-doing-it-anyway member of the pack. But I always wanted to be near the action, taking notes. Although I think Mr. Finn is still enjoying the good times, he’s got enough of a noodle to remember it in the morning and weave it into 3-minute tales of kids and kicks and the lost and the lonely. More on his songwriting here.

10. Belle & Sebastian — Dear Catastrophe Waitress (but really just “If She Wants Me”)

When B&S began their career I was taking some time off from music. I didn’t mean to, but I just got out of college and was roaming without a permanent address. I lived alone a lot and read a lot. I crashed with some friends for awhile, but they were into the rave thing and I was broke and the requisite e was too pricey. Suddenly, I was 23 and over the hill. Little did I know that life was still going on across the pond. Around 2000, I started playing catch up with Belle & Sebastian, and latched on to their first few albums — all wistfully Nick Draked and dreamy on top, and lyrically confused to the core.

The last few albums didn’t catch my ear in the same way. So I stopped listening again, only to find a friend in this song:

“If I could do just one near perfect thing I’d be happy
They’d write it on my grave, or when they scattered my ashes…”

So I look to 2008, knowing that it’s still possible that I’ll do that one near-perfect thing someday. I’m 33 now and younger than I used to be. Looks like I’ve got a few lives yet to lead, and I’m pretty sure that my epigraph has yet to be written.