A Hot Topic: If I was Goth

the death of a rose.

I wish I were goth. Fuck this colorful life I live. These days, everybody wants to be a vampire. And I say, why not me? My skin is almost see-through this winter so why can’t I be the next Wiccan black sorcerer? Why aren’t more people goth? When I become fully goth, I want to be one of those Japanese slut goths- none of this pussy white people goth shit. Go Harajuku or go home. But first I’ll start from square one. The first thing I will do is finish every single Twilight book. After I have juxtaposed and pasted Robert Pattinson’s face over my notebooks, I will cut my hair into some sort of festive Pokemon hairstyle, all choppy and jagged. I will apply a thick layer of white powder to my transparent face. I will apply black lipstick leftover from my Halloween costume from 2nd-5th grade- I was a witch. Then I will buy some butterfly wings and spray paint them black. I will wear those along with an Emily Strange t-shirt adorned with a graphic of a girl named Emily Strange and a black cat that is also probably named Emily Strange. I will have to buy this shirt online or order it from a website called www.the-black-angel.com. I will also purchase a pair of trash bag pants with a bunch of sinister spikes, heavy mopish chains, and oversized silver studs. These pants will often get caught on everyday stuff- doorways, fire hydrants, hooks- these pants are a major pain in the ass and make me feel 20 pounds heavier, but with so many zippered cargo pockets I will throw away my Invader Zim purse and continue wearing them for their utilitarian purposes. Menial tasks such as going to the bathroom and riding my bike will become almost impossible. Perhaps I will have to invest in a catheter. I will wear long toe socks printed with small white skulls- spooky!

pioneer square zombies, not really goth-a close call.

My shoes are shiny black platform boots with Lucite spikes jutting out the heels. It takes me about ten minutes to put my shoes on every morning; I have to lace two sets of laces, zip a zipper, and then fasten four large buckles. When it gets cold, I will drape my black and purple velvet cape over my Emily Strange t-shirt. I also have the option of sliding my hands into my sheer fishnet gloves and for added warmth. I will survive the winter. For my upcoming birthday I will ask my Republican parents for Wiccan potions and Pagan wall tapestries for my dorm room. Hopefully I will also get an Alien Sex Fiend or Christian Death album. My new goth friends and I will hang out on dirty coughed-up couches at a popular pizza joint or we will sit on brass sculptures of deer and wolves near the Pioneer Square Courthouse. We will discuss Scott Dyleski, how Bauhaus is counterfeit, and the 1980’s film The Hunger. My friends have a lot of pimples, which they try and mask with piercings, black lipstick, and stretched out Thai Hill tribal earlobes. My favorite color is black, I have a tattoo of a sexy girl in a black corset inked on the nape of my neck, I own every Tim Burton movie: I am goth. But I wont be goth for long. Being goth is too fucking expensive! Just covering the goth basics is like taking a second mortgage out on a dilapidated one bedroom home next door to some kook who owns three seething rottweillers with a broken Little Tyke play structure and a crab grass army plagueing the front yard. Goths have four times the amount of accessories than normal white bread people and eventually my funds will run low- I’ll have to retire immediately from the costly gothic subculture. I’ll unlace, unbuckle, and unzip my boots, unzip, unchain, and unhook my pants, untie my cape, and wash my face and become human again. In two months, my hair will be long and brown once more and I will return to the colorful hipster vibes of Beat Happening and Black Moth Super Rainbow. I will sit at my desk cubicle covered in polaroids and Kurt Vonnegut books while fiddling with my hip lo-fi Nikon camera- my gothic past stowed tightly in a small shoebox in the depths of my closet.

Fondly, Lauren

Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion (2009)

“There was a dancer who was high in a field from her movement.” So begins “In The Flowers,” the opening track on Animal Collective’s spiraling behemoth of an album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, and rarely has there been a lyric which has so accurately prefaced the sound of the entire record to follow. In the past, the group’s albums have been dominated by fearless experimentation, rejection of typical song structures, and unpredictable bursts of sound which listeners have dubbed either brilliant or unlistenable. And while Merriweather retains much of the group’s past experimentation, it is also largely a break from their typical sound: at first listen, the album sounds suspiciously like a dance record, with its sparkling (and, production-wise, immaculate-sounding) synthesizers and throbbing electronic percussion. But where most dance records are shallow and relatively straightforward, Merriweather is anything but: for every rave-like explosion or soaring chorus, there’s a slow-burning, dissonant number waiting in the wings not far behind. But, perhaps, the biggest surprise about the album is how consistent it is: where past Animal Collective albums have been largely hit-or-miss affairs, the only reason the weaker songs sound weaker here is because the peaks the band hits are Everest-sized – “In The Flowers,” (which features some of the group’s strongest lyrics to date) “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” “Bluish” (which is heartstoppingly beautiful), “Lion In A Coma,” and “Brothersport” are about as close to perfect songs as a band can get, and when the only problem with the rest of the songs is they simply aren’t perfect, the result is an album the likes of which most bands only dream about making.

Rating: 9.0
Track picks: “In The Flowers,” “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” “Bluish”

- Will Preston

Bruce Peninsula - A Mountain Is A Mouth (2009)

Rock music just keeps getting bigger. Not simply in the epic, sweeping sounds of U2 or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, but also in the explosion of the rock band itself – for in recent years, groups whose members number in the double-digits have become almost as common as the quartet. While the sound of such groups can be, and often is, overwhelming, it allows new avenues to be opened that would formerly be available. Take the case of Bruce Peninsula, an eleven-piece ensemble from Toronto whose lineup includes, in addition to guitar, bass, and drums, an eight-member gospel choir. The choir itself rarely takes the center spotlight – though when it does, such as in the stomping “Satisfied” or the show-stopping arrangement of the traditional “Crabapples,” the result is tremendous – and more often serves to back the raspy lead vocals of Neil Haverty; however, it never fails to provide a vibrance and vigor to the music that not only feels genuine, but is all-too-absent in much modern music. The fact that the ensemble can pull off such a feat – and over the tricky time signature changes of “Steamroller” or the subdued folk swaying of “Weave Myself A Dress,” nontheless – is a testament to their versatility and creativity. With A Mountain Is A Mouth, Bruce Peninsula has crafted not only an incredibly solid album, but also the first great debut of 2009. Hey hoorah, indeed.

Rating: 9.0
Track picks: “Steamroller,” “2nd 4th World War,” “Crabapples”

- Will Preston

A.C. Newman - Get Guilty (2009)

Carl Newman – the lead songwriter of the New Pornographers – is, without doubt, one of the finest songwriters of the past ten years, having churned out four excellent albums with the New Pornos and one equally strong album under his own name. Unfortunately, however, Newman breaks his track record with Get Guilty, his five-years-in-the-making followup to his 2004 solo effort. It’s not that Guilty is a bad record; rather, it’s simply an album plagued by numerous little problems, problems that join forces like an army and rise up to overwhelm the memorable aspects of the songs. The main complaint is that the record as a whole feels stiff – where earlier albums possessed an easy, infectious energy, Guilty is loaded with songs such as “There Are Ten Or Twelve” and “Thunderbolts” (the latter of which also has the distinction of being the most insipid song Newman has ever written) which lumber around with lackluster, rigid rhythms. It’s almost as if, having slowed down so successfully on Challengers, Newman has forgotten how to “rock” and is simply going through the motions. Take that and combine it with a host of other minor problems – the fact that “The Heartbreak Rides,” “Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer,” and “Submarines Of Stockholm” (which are otherwise decent numbers) all outstay their welcome by about half a minute each, or the fact that the arrangements range from forced to bombastic – and Newman’s gift for lyrics and melody are the last thing you notice. Newman has announced that he has already finished the demos for the next New Pornographers album. Here’s to hoping Get Guilty is simply the sound of the songwriter stretching his creative muscles before the victory lap.

Rating: 6.5
Track picks: “Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer,” “Prophets,” “The Palace At 4 AM”

- Will Preston

score!

I have no shame in confessing that I am the friend/date that makes her party wait till the end of movie credits before leaving the theater. Mostly, if you go to a movie with me you'll end up impatiently waiting, wondering why I'm still adamantly engrossed in something fleeting, meanwhile you've got to pee and your popcorn has turned stale. Sorry, but I do this not to be all righteous and respectful but rather to listen to the music (and to finish my twizzlers, but that is beside the point). There simply is no better time to listen to a single song, slouched peacefully in your seat, watching those credits methodically roll up that spackled cinema screen and letting the projector lights flick the back of your head. The music seeps into every crevasse of the theater, coddling your sensory system like a giant bear hug. And finally, the din of theater goers rustling about concludes your audio extravaganza. Usually, I am a bit teary-eyed from the movie anyhow, so my listening experience becomes very emotional. Most recently, I saw THE BLACK BALLOON (an Australian movie about tumultuous family dynamics directed by Elissa Down) and found myself hysterically blubbering over Simon Day's brazen and comedic "Even." It was a little pathetic to be honest. Nonetheless, movies are a great way to listen to new music. I suggest catching a flick at the Portland 32nd annual International Film Festival (Feb. 5-21) and tuning into the film scores, most films have myspcae pages where you can learn all about their soundtrack and composer, you can even buy the soundtrack if so inclined, but if you're anything like me you'll just milk the rolling credit music for all it's worth.

-mh

OLD SHIT: The Clean - Anthology

Who the fuck knew New Zealand had an awesome music scene. Let's face it, besides those two guys with a TV show on HBO, I bet you didn't think people in New Zealand knew what guitars were. Well the Clean do (sorta), and they are pretty darn good at it.
Anthology is a compilation of all of the band's early singles (capitalism or laziness? both!) released on the fledgling Flying Nun label in the early 80's. Kicking off things right, "Tally Ho" launches with a piercingly cute distorted organ line and shambling, distorted drums. Rumor has it (the internet told me) that no engineers in New Zealand wanted to record the band, so they just bought a 4-track and happened to record a Number Four single (in New Zealand, not on, like, normal charts).
The Clean walk a fine line. No, they tip-toe it holding bricks in each hand, while balancing spoons on their noses. Their songs would sound like every dumb 'indie' band out there, with their vaguely familiar chords & riffs and their simple, dead-on drumming, but everything is a bit more off the cuff and a bit more in your face than the simple crap you'll find being released. They holler a bit too loud and a bit too off key, in that super-happy-super-catchy-but-still-super-badass way that only the 80's could produce.

OF NOTE: In 2001 David Kilgour, guitarist of The Clean, received the New Zealand Order of Merit. Other recipients of this include Queen Elizabeth II, a queen, and Valerie Vili, an Olympic shot-putter.
ALSO OF NOTE: I found this on a New Zealand website. New Zealand has websites!

How I Caught The Blues

Artist: Mississippi Joe Callicott
Album: Ain’t a Gonna Lie to You
Label: Fat Possum Records


I normally wouldn’t write about an album that we just have sitting in the Cave, given the amount of new music that I could be reviewing or ranting about. However, Mississippi Joe Callicott is probably one of the most underappreciated bluesmen ever to have lived. The man needs and deserves a gospel of some kind in order to spread his music and show everybody just how truly brilliant he was, and that task seems to have fallen to me. If I had to compare him to any other musician, I’d say he sounds like Mississippi John Hurt, and while the comparison may be apt, there’s a great deal more to him.
I found this album while I was working as the Circulation Director last year. One of the few benefits of that job was getting to know all of the CDs in our possession really, really well, and sure enough, I happened to be going through the cabinets when I found this album. At the time, I had stopped collecting and actively listening to the blues; I’d been a blues geek throughout part of high school, but from Junior year on my musical focus lay in jazz. It might have been the same day that I discovered a Furry Lewis album entitled “Fourth and Beale” and a Mississippi Fred McDowell album entitled “Mama Says I’m Crazy.” These three albums were responsible for getting me back into blues music. However, I’d heard of the both of them before; Joe Callicott was an unknown.
Joe Callicott was born in Nesbit, Mississippi in 1900 and died in 1969. He recorded two songs in 1930: the “Fare Thee Well Blues” and “Traveling Mama Blues,” along with a few songs where he played second guitar for another artist. These would be his last recorded output until 1967. He was largely unknown until George Mitchell, a musicologist interested in the unknown musicians of southern blues, approached him to record the songs heard on this album. A few songs were omitted from this album, another four were recorded at a music festival in Memphis, and seventeen were recorded for Blue Horizon. This is the sum total of Mississippi Joe Callicott’s recorded output, and it’s extraordinarily difficult to find anything besides this album.
The first track, “Frankie and Albert,” hypnotized me. “Frankie and Albert” is a standard which has been covered by blues and jazz musicians, including Mississippi John Hurt, Duke Ellington, and Jimmie Rodgers, so I was familiar with the song. His guitar playing caught my attention because it didn’t sound like any blues I had listened to before, apart from John Hurt. His singing, however, what was truly caught my attention. Simply put, Joe Callicott is one of the best singers blues music has ever produced. His singing is nothing like other bluesmen; he’s not powerful like Muddy Waters, haunting like Skip James or edgy like Howling Wolf. His voice is smooth and “silky,” to steal a friend’s description, and has an incredible range, going from a high falsetto to a baritone effortlessly. Age did not weaken his voice but rather gave it more character. Callicott’s guitar melodies are not particularly complicated; his guitar playing slowed down and became less advanced as he grew older. However, the melodies are beautiful and work perfectly in conjunction with his singing.
The rest of the album is as good as the opening track and in some cases is better. “Laughing to Keep from Crying” and “Fare Thee Well Blues” are beautiful and sad, “Down to the River Jordan” is peaceful, and the “Good Time Blues” makes you lonesome. Ry Cooder covered “France Chance,” and Callicott does a beautiful rendition of it here. “Roll and Tumble” is one of those songs that everybody has covered, and every performer tries to put their own stamp on it. Callicott’s lyrics are different from every other version out there, and it works perfectly. The songs are firmly in a Mississippi Country Blues tradition, and they make for great listening under just about every circumstance imaginable.
Perhaps I’ve been verbose with this review, talking too much about a musician who by any definition is old news, but Joe Callicott is simply too brilliant for me to not say something about him. The few people I’ve showed his music to have become as obsessed as I have, so something tells me that this isn’t just me. Do yourself a favor, find this album, and celebrate this man who deserves some recognition.

Zeb Larson

KLC World Music/Jazz Director