Dollar Bin # 13:
The Mountain Goats' Sweden
Here's a (Mostly) True story:
In the fall of 1995, John Darnielle, the founder, songwriter, frontman (and, occasionally, the sole member) of The Mountain Goats taught me how to cook.
As a second year student at Pomona College I took the one on-campus job no one else wanted: fast food line cook. No one wanted the job because it required actual labor; every other on-campus job involved sitting at a desk in a library, museum, gym or office while doing your homework. But I was ready to heat oil, and labor. I was ready to eat as much free ice cream as I could in-between orders.
The job was an odd choice for a vegetarian like me at the time: I spent the first hour of every shift slicing enough partially thawed, homogenized meat for the full day of orders ahead; once both of my hands were entirely numb from the meat's cold it was time to drink a giant vat of free Sprite and then move on to other prep tasks. Slice the tomatoes. Fire up the grill. Then, once the place opened, I'd spend the rest of my shift burning all that sliced meat to a crisp for altered and/or indifferent fellow college students.
John Darnielle trained me. He'd already released two records at that point, but I had no idea who the hell he was. My ignorance drove him nuts.
By the time he arrived each day my hands were already numb and my personally selected music was already on the stereo system. In the fall of 95 that meant a heavy rotation of Guided By Voices' Alien Lanes, Uncle Tupelo records and Yo La Tengo's Electr-O-Pura. I'd put on Tom Waits' The Black Rider at closing time so everyone would go the hell home; that always cleared the room.
But I never played The Mountain Goats; I'd never even heard of them. Throughout that fall I worked alongside a blossoming rock star. And I had no clue whatsoever.
John was the first and only friend I've ever had who wore a leather jacket. He was also ridiculously old for an undergraduate; we're talking mid-to-late-twenties. Every day he'd arrive, compliment my taste in music, trade his jacket for a weathered apron and then look at me earnestly. It was weird. I saw that he wanted me to say something, that he wanted me to know something. Desperately. But I had no idea what the hell it was.
After a bit he'd sigh and begin the day's training. Here's how to flip 'em kid; here's how to fire up that grill.
Then, at some point, he just broke down and told me: he knew James McNew; he had a record deal; he was just back from a tour of Germany, where people were crazy for any kind of American music; he was starting to make some real money (hence the leather jacket). He thought I'd like his music.
At that point I'm afraid I made the situation much, much worse. I laughed at John Darnielle and accused him of lying.
"Yeah right, dude. You're a rock star. And I'm the queen of England."
He listened. He paused. Then he shut down the register and said we needed to go outside. And so we went. College kids stood about, confused. Who was gonna get them their curly fries if the kid in The Dead t-shirt and the weird old guy took a break?
I remember, like yesterday, standing next to him in the sun. He'd taken off his apron and put his leather jacket back on. The vibe was very weird.
"Look, I'm not joking," he said. "My band used to play shows here on campus, but we're just too big for that now. Go to Rhino records; you're a vinyl guy, right? They've got my latest album on vinyl for like 7 bucks."
(Remember: this was the secret golden age of vinyl: CDs cost $12-15 and records of the same thing cost $7-12. And we all thought we needed to spend more for the CDs! If I had a time machine, I would not go back and see who killed JFK; rather, I'd spend a sweet summer with Jane Austen and then propose marriage to her, then I'd travel to 1969 to see Neil and Crazy Horse live, THEN I'd go back to 95 and buy everything I could grab on vinyl CHEAP.)
Okay, back to John Darnielle in 95: "Look: my new record is called Sweden," he said. "Only it has absolutely nothing to do with Sweden. That's the joke. Listen to it; you'll know it's me right away. I sing like I talk. People think we have like 25 members in the band, but it's really just me and this girl who plays bass. I lie in my songs, all the time. But I'm not lying to you."
And then he just walked off. In the middle of his shift! I was left to man the counter on my own. Fries were ordered; burgers were burned to a fabulous crisp. And The Black Rider came on way early. I had something I needed to do.
As soon as the quitting bell rang I hopped on my bike and road straight to the record store. As usual, the counter was manned by the angriest guy in the whole world. His name was probably Haemon, and he always sneered at whatever I was buying. This was years before High Fidelity, but he was already auditioning for Jack Black's part. The dude just hated me. I remember buying a Sonic Youth Tee in there one time. He ripped me apart while ringing me up. Is it any wonder that a few years later we all decided to shop on Amazon?
Anyway, by the time I got to the store, I'd pretty much decided John Darnielle was for real. And quite quickly I found his record, walked it to the counter, handed it over guiltily (Rhino Records had their workers stand behind a counter that was a full two feet higher than the sales floor so as to allow Jack Black Sr. behind the counter, who was tall to begin with, maximum superiority over his pathetic customers), and then, for the first and only time, the guy did not give me a hard time.
"Well, well, well," he said. "You're finally buying something of value. Poser."
(Remember when we all called each other "poser"? Now we all call each other unprintable things. Ah, the 90's...)
Well, you can see where this is going. The Mountain Goats were indeed that guy John from my day job. His singing was ridiculous, like Lou Reed if he was a passionate player of Magic, The Gathering. His melodies were infectious, like Bob Pollard if he was earnest, not drunk. His lyrics were cute and bizarre, like Dylan if he actually attended college, then managed to double major in Classics and English. The recording process was infantile, like me in the kitchen. Or rather, like me in life.
It was all precious. It was all awesome.
I returned to work a day or six later, eager to see my new friend John and tell him all about it. He was a genius! He was Robyn Hitchcock meets Johnathan Richman; he was Thomas Pynchon with a guitar; he was my new hero.
And then, I never saw him again. That moment in the sun turned out to be the last moment we ever spent together. I guess he went and got a life.
Hello out there, John! It's 28 years later and your recent publicity pics make you look, in the words of one of this blogs' 40+ (wow!) readers, like an alternative high school teacher: he sees you; he respects your pronouns. Guess what, John? That's a better description of me than you these days. You're playing the Belly Up this fall. I'm not even playing Magic, The Gathering.
So go, take a listen to Sweden! It's great. Check out the hilarious T.S. Eliot intro to I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone. Enjoy the alternative Swedish titles for every song. Be reminded of how Hercules died: consumed by an article of his own clothing. Flip to the B Side and enjoy a nice coconut cream pie.
And while you are listening, picture an earnest and very talented guy in a leather jacket in 1995, patiently teaching a very young and hopeful kid how to flip burgers and fry up the grill. See him. See me. We're both dreaming of incredible futures: incredible futures that came true.
Happy Friday everyone! And John, while I've got you here: thanks for being patient and nice to me way back then. I'm sorry I needed you to introduce me to your music. Please tell Stephen Stills he sucks.
25 notes
·
View notes
long fucking rant about the joy of reading a good book. (not at all accurate title)
I just finished reading Felidae! incredible book I really love the story and- okay bear with me. I got the book a few years back because my mom mentioned reading it when she was younger. I told her I'd want to read it as well and she went through the painstaking process of finding it (which was not easy because the Author is a right fucking prick so his books aren't really sold anymore.)
so we found it on ebay eventually.( god knows I am not givin that author my money) I left it alone for a few years, had other shit to read and actually did not read much at all during that time...
right fast forward I decide I should read it because one of my terrible habits is starting thousands of things at once and never really finishing any of em. SO AND THIS IS WHERE IT GETS INTERESTING! I read the first 3 pages or so n talked to my mom and brother about it shortly, saying I liked the way it was written, the characters, the exposition, etc etc- AND at the mention of the plot my brother goes "oh! I've heard of that! it's the book that some german studio made into that horrifying animated movie adaptation!" AND IT ALL CAME CRASHING DOWN
because I remember what he meant because you KNOW tiny me with unrestricted internet access had seen some clips of the gory , disturbing cat-movie before! and you know what? I was unfortunate (or maybe fortunate , seeing how I'm a massive horror fan now) enough to watch "Watership down" as a kid so when I saw Felidae being ranked even HIGHER than that movie in those "ooh horrofying disturbing kids movieees ooh" lists, I swore I'd never watch it..
and here we are, I read that boook so fast and it is actually incredibly entertaining (i also just have never read a "krimi" before so I definitely have a high appreciation for the genre now)
I am incredibly excited to watch the movie. JUST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH a 2D animated thriller-detective cat movie with horrorfying scenes and absurd amounts of gore??? COUNT ME IN
TL:DR : I realize that reading is fun if you actually have a good book to read and obsess over the story of a cat solving a series of cat murders
5 notes
·
View notes
Nickel Bin #2:
The Roches' Hammond Song
Some songs have no peers.
There's nothing comparable to Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone: while his efforts to write another anthem are many, and they vary from the successful (Knocking on Heaven's Door) to the underappreciated (Changing of the Guard) to the overrated (Gotta Serve Somebody) to the annoying unless you are in a very weird mood (Brownsville Girl), he, and everybody else, has never come close to a comparable synergy of warmth, anger and energy.
I think The Roches' Hammond Song is equally unique. Suzzy, Terre and Maggie Roche never climbed a musical mountain like it again in their fitful, joyful and far too short career together, and I don't know any other song or group that presents such bizarre and daring vocals (they range from startlingly androgynous to winningly effete and back again); where else can you hear three such utterly distinct voices sharing a space with such elegance? Add to that mix the unique layers afforded by the song's length and its guitar solos, plus its confusing but vital story, and you've got yourself a masterpiece.
Let's listen.
First of all they're not singing about Heaven. They're singing about Hammond, Louisiana and Maggie and Terre's decision, years earlier, to ditch their budding music career altogether. It seems there was a Kung Fu school (seriously!) in Hammond that a friend was running and that seemed like a better place to be than in New York City, wearing clothes assigned to them by their record company.
The song is a natural cousin to Cat Stevens' Father and Son: In Hammond Song The Roches present a musical debate between the patriarchs in their life and themselves; they sing both sides of the argument and they let you choose the winner.
The song opens with a long, suspenseful opening that gives way to warm strumming and then the refrain's three part harmony. But then it swerves for the first wild time into Maggie Roche alone, and she's telling the band they're "on the wrong track". What other voice is like hers? I'm afraid my sexist biases hear her unique contralto and summon up a woman on a motorcycle with arms the size of my thighs who smokes six packs a day and would happily kick my ass while having yet another. But here she is:
Maggie died 6 or 7 years ago. My famous brother's friend Ryan, who recently bought me a very delicious beer at a Yo La Tengo show, sobbed when he heard the news. The more time I spend listening to Maggie's music, the more I understand where he was coming from. Just take a listen to Quitting Time from the same record:
At the end of each section of Hammond Song The Roches hit and hold a high, odd and transfixing note. You can hear it for the first time on the Ooooo after the first section, soon after Maggie's introduces her voice. That same note, or one close to it anyway, comes back again before the first guitar solo on "you're LYYYYYYing to me", then again on "don't be a FOOOOL."
When CS&N reach for a note like that I wonder just what the hell I'm doing with my life. When Linda Ronstadt, Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris finally threw off the concerns of their record companies in the mid-80's and came together as a bluegrass version of The Roches they hit some angelic notes, yes, but they never sounded weird. Such weirdness is a big part of Hammond Song's, and the band's, genius.
And capturing that weirdness, and that note, is still a goal for a new bands. Check out Meg Baird search for and then find it - and then keep it for an impossible, audacious length, at 3:15 mark of Heron Oblivion's seismic Your Hollows:
Next time I get an hour with Baird in a bar I'll ask her about Hammond Song as a basis for Your Hollows instead of quizzing her on Mike Heron. Poor Meg. I suppose she's been warned.
And now that you have Heron Oblivion in your ears, let's talk about Hammond Song's guitar solos. That's Robert Fripp, of King Crimson/Eno/Bowie/Talking Heads fame, making himself known. He walks a careful and skillful line in his production of the song and the record around it: you never forget he's there but he never gets in the way. This is the sisters' record and the sisters' song. But wow, what a guitar sound he achieves: it's nearly as weird as the vocals, part theremin, part Hendrix, all magic.
Finally, Hammond Song avoids easy cliche in its storytelling as well. Okay, their male authorities wanted them to put on sexy dresses and stop being weird, but the girls said no and became their awesome selves instead:
Lesser artists would have wrapped the story up with victory. But Maggie and her sisters know it's not that simple. When they released Hammond Song their story was far from over: the record could have tanked; it could have proved the record company right.
And so The Roches bring us into the debate; they let us decide whether their defiance in life and in the song are justified. "Tell me," they appeal to us in the song's conclusion, "I'm okay."
Dear Suzzy, Terre and Maggie,
You are not okay. You are the best.
Sincerely,
The Nickel Bin
15 notes
·
View notes