[The Record Crate] The emotional roller coaster of being alive

Susan Cowsill was just as powerful a performer as I'd hoped. She kept the clutch of hardcore folk fans at the Red Dragon in the palm of her hands, which in itself is not the most difficult task; they are true believers in acoustic music. What she does that is special is she whips the listener around with her on the emotional roller coaster of being alive, in all its tragic, embarrassing, joyous and contemplative glory. During the intro to a song about her exile from New Orleans, she started cutting up, mock-chastising the crowd, "Look, people, let's get serious. Lives and property were lost," and kept it up throughout the song until one moment when she tossed out, "C'mon, I'm trying not to cry up here," quickly adding, "I wish I was joking." Sure, maybe that move is a little passive aggressive, but it totally worked. You could feel stifled laughter and a quick gulp overtake the room, which is the only way you can take in tragedy.

Emo is a genre of music that embodies this, and while I think I missed the time bracket for it to be particularly salient to me, I've been a fan of the Get Up Kids since their inception. And while the band grew to brusque at the unfortunate term, it still fits, with the emotional firehose spraying from their urgent, punk-informed melodies. Singer Matt Pryor has done a lot of growing up since The Kids called it quits in 2005, and it shows on his solo CD Confidence Man. He still has the same yearning and knack for a good hook, but has traded the flare-up guitar for an acoustic setting. It could be seen as an extension of his other band the New Amsterdams, but solo, Pryor is more engaging and even a little funny -- on the brief, bittersweet "Loralai," he says, "I don't want you to know that I don't want you to go because you've got my only set of keys." Pryor will appear Monday at the Spanish Moon.

Another guy with a powerful stage persona is Lil' Dave Thompson. I know I mention him every time he comes through, but there is a reason: He's one of those performers who can illuminate what potential there still is in the blues, through his gospel stomp, electrifying guitar work, original songs and his wide range of styles. Jazz and blues standard DownBeat ran a feature I wrote about him in the July issue this summer, but you have a chance to witness him in the down-home setting of Teddy's in Zachary this Saturday, neither of which will disappoint.

Link to original with local events calendar

100 Words on My Old Paintings

Back before I figured out how to become a writer of modest acclaim, I was a painter of modest acclaim, and a friend whose walls over the years bore the fruits of those times called saying his walls had new tennats, so I headed down and retrieved them. A few of these were completely forgotten to me, and others, they look better than I thought. I wish the T on the green one was a little more muted, and the black one didn’t look like it should hawk the daily specials, but only experience schools one in demarcation and framing.

trashing art for limited returns and a laugh

Unlike everyone else who wanted to hate emo and emo kids, I really want to love them and their music, but I think I was just outside of the bracket in which emo would really speak to me. But I always liked The Get Up Kids - they were the Kansas City band when I lived there, the ones that made it, so much so that they didn't play there any more. Their unabashedly maudlin "I'm a Loner, Dottie, A Rebel..." still kinda gets to me. Lead singer Matt Pryor is coming to town and I slogged reluctantly through the solo record for my column (I don't know what an artist is supposed to do after a band, but solo albums are approached with trepidation by everyone, always) and just like GUK's, it is sweet and delicate and even a little funny.

Nico Muhly is the benefactor of another improbably popular genre - serial minimalism. He played with Philip Glass and is the defacto arranger of strings for things among the indie elite, and through that, this scintillating piece of post-Robert Ashley glittering wonder garnered a review in Pitchfork, albeit a less than charitable one. What, does he need a Brooklyn mailing address and pants that don't reach his ankles? But, I can see why they (used losely to denote a general aesthetic, I know they have different writers writing from different viewpoints) didn't like it - they seem to like it when you ride out on a tricycle and hit them with a giant inflatable banana and then guilelessly drone "Ha I just hit you with a giant inflatable banana..." - in other words, they like transparency. Mothertongue is secretive and quietly difficult while being imminently applealing - everything I want out of modern composition, and life in general.

Part of the first movement of Wonders sounds a lot like that harpsichord song by Joanna Newsom, which Maya and I heard last night at the sandwich place. She smiled started mock-singing with the elfin harpist minx and remarked "This sounds like one of those terrible Disney princess songs, like 'yaaaaaaaaa, ya YAAAAAAAA' - not the good ones, but the terrible ones." I predict my bloodline will be trashing art for limited returns and a laugh for generations to come.

Speaking of, I got a PDF back from an upcoming print article, and gazing upon it feels alot like this Charlie Byrd album: breezy, comfortable and being momentarily aglow. Maybe because it comes first, and is the moment when an article becomes real, but I almost get a bigger charge out of the pre-print PDF than I do from seeing my work in the actual magazine. Almost.

Antiono Carlos Jobim

Lately I have been going for harsh music in the morning and then soft yielding smoothness in the afternoon. I shuffled through everything I could think of - I want something "Girl from Impanema" smooth - for about an hour until it hit me that I should just listen to the actual thing. I went for Antonio Carlos Jobim's polite society version on Tide rather than the classic one with Astrud Gilberto - looking for the kind of music that might issue forth from Bob Newhart's hi-fi in his Chicago apartment, and whoosh, this is it.

left to dissolve in its indifferent power

What does the icepick lyrics and lava-floe flow of Nas have in common with the ponderous flatulent solo organ monstrosities of Oliver Messiaen? Little besides a need to corrupt your cognitive patterns. Nas gets your shoulders and hips working like all great hip-hop does and gets you nodding with him and smiling and then BAM he punches you square in the gut, with a look of that's what its like, motherfucker, and walks away.

Messiaen has the organist tear apart the structure of the familiar hymn and flings each giant chunk into the thick viscous air, allowing it to linger in the dust until it falls with a resounding thud, shaking everything in the room with its mass. This is also what it's like, motherfucker, even when the organist falls asleep on the keys creating a drone long enough to make me sure that the player wasn't stuck. Messiaen's wide cluster sweeps are like being trapped by a Klieg light, left to dissolve in its indifferent power.

I mulled over what would be an amalgam of the two, but couldn't come up with anything I'd want to listen to, so Peter Brötzman and crew from Last Exit will be put to the task of scorching the earth bare so that the flowers of new cognitive patterns can emerge and flourish.

grown-folks dinner party music

Shuffling at mid-volume in the changer: Jose Gonzalez - In Our Nature Remixes; Dengue Fever - Venus on Earth; Bebel Gilberto - Tanto Tempo; Me'shell Ndegeocello - Comfort Woman; Iron and Wine - The Shepherd's Dog; Jens Lekman - When I Said I Wanted to be Your Dog

While I'm putting out some some bread for the hummus, fix yourself a cocktail, and just make yourself at home. Do you know my good friends Bjorn and Terez? She's an editor for the history journal, and he builds custom furniture. (slides over wicker basket for your keys)

100 Words on Quarters

I was just at the bank depositing a check and saw behind the teller a cardboard box emblazoned "$500 QUARTERS." I was overcome with an urge to steal it. $500 is not worth a robbery conviction, but a fistful of quarters still feels rich to me, even as an adult. You don't save quarters, or I don't. You make things happen with them. With two thousand shiny, stolen quarters on hand, I would run the world with them, all the time. Next pool game is on me! Cold drinks for everyone! You can get a gumball AND a ring!