Meta: Chicago Winters

So, I've added a couple of things to Ye Olde Website. The first is a small flash player to the right that should, theoretically, shuffle through the tracks on Nothing Personal.

The second addition is a new page, which has some more tracks from my older records, as well as a placeholder for some as-yet-unreleased music. (Confusingly, it also has music that is both older and as-yet-unreleased).

In the coming days, I'll be including the option to buy the songs via direct download. I've thought about encoding them in FLAC or some other hi-res format, but for now I'm going to encode them in 320k MP3.

Of course, you can always just buy the regular album proper by visiting these good people.

Meta: Listen, Truckstop Records, I Will Feel So Good When You're Gone

Note: I wrote this originally as an experiment to see if I could be one of those people who write record reviews for a living. Turns out I'm not. I think it's one of those specialized forms of writing that some people excel at, and some people, people like me, don't. Also, it's a great way to make you want to stab your stereo.


Bobby Conn: King For A Day /
Trans Am: Sex Change
(Thrill Jockey)

Over the course of a decade, Bobby Conn has managed to carve out a curious niche in the already-crowded panoply of Chicago’s music scene. Once known primarily for his frenzied live shows (seminars really) and style-a-minute recordings, he has naturally resisted easy categorization due in no small part to the sheer grasp and reach of his various personas. And yet for all of his incarnations—Bobby Conn as low-rent Bacchus, Bobby Conn as mesmeric performer, the Bobby Conn that emerges on his sixth solo outing King for A Day may be his most convincing yet.

Like all Bobby Conn records, King for A Day benefits as much from ambition as it does anything else, and the lineup reflects this. Working with romantic partner and musical accomplice Monica BouBou, Conn also enlists the help of erstwhile colleagues The Glass Gypsies and newcomers The Detholz! Even John McEntire weighs in at one point to lend his hand at synthesizer.

The results are equal parts Hollywood polemic, tawdry ballad and cheap thrill. Make no mistake—there are no glassy introspections here. No meditative brushstrokes. This is Bobby Conn at his kinky best.

He knows it, too. When he sings “My teeth are so white/They burn your eyes/So close your eyes/And let me simplify your life” (in “Anybody”), there’s no mistaking the smirk in his voice. And when he sings “Here I am, if you want it/There’s no reason to wait/I’m so easy to talk to/Give me love…” (in “Twenty-one”), you get the sense that he’s not so much sympathizing with the protagonist as making fun of her.

It’s not all about the lyrics though, and it wouldn’t be a Bobby Conn record if it didn’t contain some unexpected musical delights—the distended, snaking string figures that emerge in “A Glimpse of Paradise,” the prowling and muscular guitar that lines the basin of the instrumental “Sinking Ship.” Even ostensible pop songs can’t escape Bobby Conn’s peculiar, weird imprint—the muted horns and tricky time signatures of “Twenty-one” transform what could be a disaffected take on disco-era schmaltz into something more telling. And in the opening song “Vanitas,” tense, mostly acoustic churning gives way to sudden, all-out hair-metal assault.

At times, the record’s sheer density and stylistic promiscuity threatens to overwhelm, and there are moments when the record seems to overtake itself. But Conn knows his stuff, and is nothing if not dedicated to his craft. The end result is a sprawling, monstrously-complicated record that sheds previous incarnations as deftly as it thoroughly inhabits them. And like all Bobby Conn records, it just may be his best yet.

Like their longtime labelmate, Thrill Jockey’s Trans Am seems to invite comparisons to just about everything, a tendency not at all surprising given the band’s penchant for borrowing liberally from both well-worn prog-rock tropes and early monochromatic electronic music. Yet despite these wholesale appropriations, or perhaps because of them, Trans Am has always enjoyed an uncanny ability to re-invent itself, and their latest record, Sex Change, is no exception.

Mixed and recorded in a little under three weeks, without benefit of their normal gear and often employing an adapted version of Brian Eno’s “Oblique Strategies,” Sex Change finds the band gamely continuing along the promising arc hinted at in 2004’s Liberation. More of a tactical than a strategic shift, the record doesn’t veer very far from the sleek, rhythm-heavy and programmatic template established in earlier releases.

But there are some new elements this time around. In “North East Rising Sun,” the inclusion of honest-to-goodness vocals, unadorned or otherwise obfuscated by vocoder, is a nice touch. So too is the shy, guitar-driven lift of “4,738 Regrets.” They’re not seismic shifts by any stretch, but there’s enough of these moments to suggest that they may be on to something.

Trans Am’s ability to mimic has survived intact as well. Tracks like “Exit Management Solution,” with its squelchy bass line and top-heavy synths, could easily pass for vintage hollAnd, and the guitar wash of closer “Triangular Pyramid” gives a polite nod of the head in Built To Spill’s direction.

Still, perhaps due to the harried recording schedule, the record is a little thin in places. Tracks like “Climbing Up the Ladder “ don’t seem to offer much beyond a phoned-in, perfunctory take on ‘80’s era funk. And “Obscene Strategies” lifts a bit too heavily from War’s Low Rider, even down to the sunglass-shaded vocals and insistent cowbell.

It’s at these moments that you realize that listening to a Trans Am record can be a self-conscious experience. You wonder constantly: am I getting the joke?

Yet despite these minor distractions, the record serves as a welcome return to form. It may not be the most complete or consistent record they’ve made over their long career, but, judging from where they seem to be heading, they shouldn’t be long in getting there.

Meta: Bobby Conn, Trans Am, Thrill Jockey, Record Review

I took this picture a while back when I was standing on my back porch and looking over the railing into the alley below. I'm used to seeing lots of weird things in my alley, but this one was special. Is he dead? Alive? Totally wasted? I had to stare closely at his chest to see if he was breathing. (He was).

Carl just pointed out to me the striking similarities between this picture and the cover of Get There.

Meta: Schrödinger, Dead

I started writing this before I realized I hate writing about musicians even more than I hate writing about hating to write about musicians.


Elliott Smith (1969 - 2003)

To the millions of Americans watching at home during the 1997 Academy Awards, Elliott Smith must have seemed a strange sight. This was the year of the juggernaut, of Titanic and Celine Dion. The question that night was not if Titanic would win, but by how big a margin. So it is perhaps understandable then if no one paid much attention to the unknown songwriter from Portland who appeared suddenly, incongruous and shy, in an ill-fitting white suit with a guitar tucked close against his chest.

It was, even by his standards, a muted performance. He played as if unsure of himself, his eyes never once leaving the middle distance between his guitar and the floor. At one point his hands seemed to slip on a chord. It was over quickly.

His career had started, as these things so often do, on a whim. A friend had lent him a four-track and, upon hearing the results, encouraged him to shop the record around. It was quickly picked up by a small imprint, Cavity Search Records, and in July of that year it was released under the name Roman Candle. A smattering of live appearances followed, including a brief tour with Mary Lou Lord, and by the end of the year people were beginning to pay attention. The buzz had started. It was 1994.

Roman Candle was a curious record, as notable for its arresting musicianship as it was for its lack of polish. By turns dense and spare, deliberate and decaying, it retained a hushed, reverent quality throughout. It was, above all, a quiet record. His voice, while expressive, rarely broke above a whisper. It was the kind of voice where you could tell that the singer had his eyes closed the entire time.

But if his voice searched, his guitar compelled. The unorthodox chord structures and inventive changes that would serve as a blueprint for later recordings were already on prominent, astonishing display. The intro to Condor Ave. alone was staggering. Combining multiple ideas into a single passage, it flicked effortlessly between wide, thrumming bass notes and graceful, stacking runs. It was surprisingly playful, and you got the sense that he was enjoying himself, and that he was listening to it as intently as we were.

Other records soon followed, each more pronounced and orchestrated than the last. Where once a guitar was his sole accompaniment, he began to add other instruments. By the time of 2000’s Figure Eight, he was an artist in full bloom, experimenting with tape loops and exotic arrangements. He was also reportedly working on a soundtrack to the movie Thumbsucker, and had even recently claimed to have given up alcohol, red meat and the dizzying array of various prescription drugs which had for so long dominated his life. From the outside, at least, it looked as if he was finally turning a corner.

He didn’t make it of course.

Looking back now, his suicide* on October 21, 2003 in Los Angeles doesn’t seem that surprising. From the very beginning, his lyrics reflected a troubled, turbulent life, one spent openly struggling with the by now familiar refrain of drugs, rehab and more drugs. Towards the end of 2001, for all of its initial promise, his career had effectively stalled, and a lack of official communication had spurred the inevitable onslaught of rumors. Depending on who you asked, he was either sober and living with a girlfriend in Portland, or near death and homeless in New York City. This confusion also extended to his closest friends, many of whom in those last months knew him simply as the lost voice on the other end of the telephone.
Those last two years were long ones. He became more and more distant and incoherent, and would speak cryptically of a white van which he claimed was following him. His appearance also suffered, and at one point he was thrown out of a friend’s show after being mistaken for a homeless man by a police officer. His own live shows were similarly disastrous. He would often have to stop himself in the middle of a song to ask the audience for help because he couldn’t remember the next verse. It was becoming increasingly obvious to any who cared to look that he was coming apart.

Still, almost despite himself, he managed to hang on just long enough to leave behind a remarkably prolific musical legacy, considering. Over the course of a little under a decade, he gave us five records, a smattering of B-sides and the sketches of what would become his posthumously-released From A Basement On A Hill.

Not enough of course, but it never is. And besides, Elliott Smith always seemed to say more with less anyway.

*It should be noted here that Elliott Smith’s death has not been officially ruled a suicide by the L.A. County Coroner’s office.

Meta: Dead people I like, Elliott Smith

For some strange reason, and I have my theories, I tend to not get sick. I mean, I do get sick, just so infrequently that I regard each event as an anomaly, more of a curiosity than anything else. And for even stranger reasons, I think I actually enjoy being sick. It has this remarkable ability to ground you in the present, and in that sense it can be liberating. Work? Who cares. Social obligations? Can’t.

My worries have, maybe just for today, been distilled into two or three very manageable things, like what to eat, instead of the usual billion amorphous and insurmountable worries that flutter around in my head. There is something beautiful about having nothing to do all day except wait it out. I made this loop right before I got sick and I’ve had it on repeat for most of the afternoon.

Meta: Sick, Tired

This morning, as I was walking back from getting coffee, something caught my eye. I almost don’t want to say what it was because it’s one of those things that people will look at you funny if you bring it up, or worse, think you’re angling for some sort of Mr. Artist Guy-type consideration.

And it wasn’t anything special, really, just a puddle lying between the curb and the sidewalk on Ashland Ave. What was unusual about it was that it was a color I’d never seen before. I literally walked around it twice trying to figure it out. Was it blue? Grey?

Complicating all this was the fact that it seemed to shift and change colors depending on my orientation to it. One second it was the color of the surrounding sidewalk, the next it was reflecting the dawn sky. It was crazy.

Someday, far in the future, someone will ask me what my favorite color is and I’ll respond “blue” because I always respond with “blue.” But then, a few weeks after that, I’ll be sitting around, spacing out, and I’ll think about my answer and I’ll wish I could change it to whatever the fuck I saw this morning. It’ll be too late then, of course, and I’ll have forgotten all about this, but it’s nice to know that at one point I had a Real Answer and not just something to say for the sake of saying it.

Meta: No sleep, Brooklyn

Saw this while driving around South Michigan Ave.

Meta: Robocop

Hello,

Recently, like a lot of people, I noticed ads populating the lower portion of my screen when accessing the DVR. This instantly brought on a strong feeling of deja-vu. I seem to remember a similar situation occurring last August, which lasted a few days before (presumably) you pulled the plug due to consumer complaints. Well, fast forward a couple of months and here we are again. And since I’m pretty sure that human nature hasn’t undergone a radical seismic shift, the kind that would result in people clamoring to see more ads on their television screens, I can only assume that you’re doing this because either the money is too tempting, or you figure if you keep doing it over and over again, eventually people are going to give up. For my part, I am happy to report that I am no less annoyed and frustrated now than I was the last time!

So, being the responsible and forthright consumer I am, I sent you an email. A very nice, polite email asking simply A) whether these ads were permanent, and B) if there was any way I could disable them manually. To no one’s surprise, I received a canned response. To wit:

What are banner ads?
A banner ad is an interactive feature of digital cable that gives increased functionality to the customer.

It was at this point that my eyes glazed over and I stopped reading. Let’s be honest here–the point of the ads is not to give increased functionality to the consumer. The point of the ads is tosell ad space and, seeing as how you enjoy virtual monopolies in a number of markets, it makes sense for you to do this. I mean, who’s going to stop you? The citizenry? Haha. Excuse me while I wipe away the tears.

Leaving aside for the moment the implicit arrogance and disregard for its customers that the ads represent, let’s look at your implementation.

First off, the banner placement sucks. Really. I mean, go see for yourself. It takes up a good 20% of the screen and requires one to highlight it to scroll past it. It’s…indecent. It’s almost like a bunch of your people got together and had a conversation that went something like this:

“Hi Jim!” “Hi Susan!” “Say, Jim, I have a great idea! Let’s muck up the menu with intrusive ads, only let’s make them as inconvenient and awkward as possible!” “Great idea Susan! That’ll teach them!” “Thanks Jim, your compliments help ease the nagging void I feel inside myself!”

Err…something like that. Anyway, the point is, they suck and they suck hard.

Second, let’s talk about content. A quick glance confirms my worst fears–most of the ads are for, wait for it, channels I already have.  Talk about what the fuck.  I mean, if you’re going to mercilessly spam me with ads, at least have the decency to be somewhat intelligent about it. Like Nixon–sure he was evil. But at least he was smart. This current strategy of yours is unnecessarily ham-handed and clunky.
I’d write more but frankly, I don’t really see the point. We both know this will never be read by an actual human being. Most likely I’ll receive yet another infuriating automated response that tells me nothing and directs me to some generic web page which is probably down anyway.

So, on that note, allow me the luxury of sharing a cautionary tale with you. Back a few years ago, AOL realized that they had what advertisers impolitely refer to as a captive audience, and that they were free to bombard the average AOL user with no less than three separate pop-up ads before they fully logged-in. It was monstrously shitty to do but, perhaps like Comcast, they figured they could get away with it. And they did, for a time.
Soon enough though, along came some new providers, ones who didn’t spam their users with ads. And soon enough, AOL fell by the wayside, with a number of internal surveys indicating that unhappiness with the blatant greed of the advertisements was a significant factor in peoples’ decision to leave AOL.

Now, I’m not saying that the ads caused the downfall of AOL. Broadband did them in if anything. But what I am saying is that such poor behavior usually goes hand in hand with business practices that eventually lead to vulnerability. And in this day and age of instant word-of-mouth campaigns that can crisscross the globe in the time it takes you to finish your “How To Alienate Customers” Powerpoint presentation, you can very quickly lose your market footing. We’ve seen it time and time again throughout history. I ask you: is this how you want to be seen by people? Are you the new AOL?
Or is there maybe a better way to do business.

Thanks for your time,

Matt

Meta: Comcastic