Here We Go Magic - Only Pieces
a record written over two months in brooklyn using a 4-track, an old synth, some strings and a throat. i find absolutely beautiful the sheer uprising of DIY musicians these days. the record industry has changed as the obstacles to discover new sounds has crumbled, devolved into a series of clicks and searchs. what could possibly be more uplifting than the knowledge that you can enter this private world one man sunk himself into for sixty odd days and peer down his eyes and hear the soundtrack to his innermost thoughts? we forfeit privacy for universal access, this internet, this beast of information; i find aboslutely beautiful the upside rediscovered every day i enter the labyrinthe of music blogs.
Black Moth Super Rainbow - Twin Of Myself
bmsr has become one of my favorite bands. no other group of musicians has managed to acheive such earthly, interstellar warmth and psychpop sensibilities as these pagan-worshipping (my guess, probably catholic ) forest creatures exhale on each tape they produce. may 26th is the new record, and, judging from this track, it will be as good as dandelion gum. what i find most intriguing - their song name selection process. i'd like to believe they sit on a clean field of white grass under a late spring sun with glasses of red wine and iced tea dicussing the merits of kierkegaard and the downfalls of sartre, when suddenly, a cloud covers their sunglasses and a raindrop lands in the pool of wine cups, diluting the wine slightly until the red fades into a gentle amaranth, and tobacco whispers between smiling teeth: "my, this afternoon has just turned quite pink."
Kurt Vile - Beach on the Moon
originally caught by attention from mdm, then sought out the full record and revelled in the folk acoustics, 90s melodies, and panda reverb. this track this still stands out as my favorite; not only for the pleasant visual image the title resonates, but for the music video that plays in my head as i listen. it involves snow, trees, a train journey, holding hands, and eating warm soup in russia.
The Fireman - Two Magpies
macca himself, but this is white album macca meets kurt and folk legends from the west in the 30s. i slept on this record for some time, always with the intention of someday listening to it. i can't remember what event presented me with the possession of electric arguments, but i am grateful for surviving said event with this record intact. it sounds like how paul should sound, cept for all that wishwashy U2 electronica that gets muddled into the mix every now and then. songs like two magpies makes the mistakes worth it. of course, who am i say anything he does is a mistake - homeboy did write eleanor rigby after all (and other tracks, of course, but that's my shit).
She drinks wine with her sunglasses on
in the shade of a garden
i came to learn how beauty can need
a friend with time to sit in the breeze
with cool laughter and a smile on her face
we held hands till morning
the tide coming fast, we wet our feet
but braced ourselves for love's defeat
the crash of hearts after two year's swell
poured rain upon Eden
thunder roared and yelled a call to explore
she grew restless in a place we adored
the golden girl who dreamed in the sun
her mind free to imagine
left the easy life she had as a kid
she doesn't want it to feel like it did
she tread Europe with her ruby shoes
oh how the girl's pulse quickened
when she set eyes on the rest of the world
the earth went blind from the color of my girl
the sun princess who made her own throne
kept her pain well hidden
never blinked in the face of troubles she had
and laughed crazy when you'd think she'd be sad
do i miss my city? no, not really. i'd rather live with the trees,
maybe somewhere to the east of the shore
where i don't understand the language. but i'd pick it up,
and order coffee with a strange inflection
to sip while i write under a heated umbrella the young waitress swears
will keep me warm while the forest behind me shivers in snow.
i'd record travels, thoughts, transcripts and tragedies,
and mail them out to whoever i could remember.
now, by 'mail,' i don't necessarily mean 'post,'
but if that would be your preferred manner of receipt i'd do it.
i would then walk through the white woods
down wintry paths and weathered roads,
working my boots into powder and gravel and leaves and water
until the pale brown turns darker, and my footsteps begin to catch up,
finding myself lost
but completely fine with that predicament.
i mean, i do have a home - it's a nice marble house on the edge of a crystal lake
not but a mile from this log i've sat to rest on -
but sometimes it's just nice to pretend you're lost.