Tag: Kim Deal

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 3/23/25

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles!

Since I haven’t been able to post in a few weeks, here are the Sunday Songs graphics from that time:

3/9/25:

3/16/25 (or, NEW CAR SEAT HEADREST IN MAY, WE ARE SO BACK):

This week: you thought this would be a quick post after I haven’t been able to write regularly for two weeks? WOE, TEN MINUTE SONG BE UPON YE!

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 3/23/25

“Love” – Hana Vu

One of the best surprises a concert can have in store is a good opener. There are infinite jokes about bad openers, half of which…well, might be dogging on perfectly fine artists trying to get their foot in the door, and half of them are true. I really do try to at least go into openers with an open (no pun intended) mind, because everybody has to start somewhere, no matter how big of an artist they’re opening for. But sometimes it’s just up to your taste. Even with some cringy performances, you can at least tell that they’re trying.

I saw Soccer Mommy about two weeks ago (stellar performance!!!! as always!! and the crowd had basic human decency this time, unlike the parasitic frat bros that populated her crowd last time) with Hana Vu as the opener. I kept my expectations low. I expected to just nod along and twiddle my thumbs, but I think I may have found an excellent artist! She came off quite shy, mumbling to the audience and asking us what we had for dinner, but once she started performing, it was clear that Soccer Mommy had a worthy match to her sound. However, if I had to compare Vu to anyone, it would be to Lucy Dacus—they have a similar brand of indie rock, both bearing warm, rich vocals and guitar-driven angst with no shortage of heart. Nothing can come close to “Night Shift,” but Vu clearly studied how that song goes supernova at the end. The closer to her most recent album, Romanticism, “Love,” like Vu’s performance before Soccer Mommy, starts out unassumingly, but quickly becomes a dramatic landslide aided with thundering drumbeats, strings, and Hana Vu bellowing as though into a cavern. The lyrics, as sparse as they are, come sung clutching a bleeding heart in both hands, staining everything within arm’s reach. It truly lives up to the drama of the album cover, with Vu draped in robes and with a sword pressed to her neck, modeled after Artemisia Gentileschi’s “Judith Slaying Holofernes.” Either way, Hana Vu has earned a tally in favor of the good opening bands I’ve seen—and a place in my more regular rotation of artists. A big thank you to Soccer Mommy for giving a platform to Vu’s talent, and thank you to Vu for the fantastic opening act!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

To a Darker Shore – Leanne Schwartz – “I just want you to stay/You know I hate giving up/And oh, Well I guess it’s just me/Please don’t leave me alone/You know I can’t let you be…”

“Bad Timing” – Jim O’Rourke

Once my dad sent me this song, it was immediately relegated to my quiet instrumental study playlist. I shouldn’t say “relegated,” really. It’s a great song to peacefully study along with, but it keeps you on your toes. Ten minutes long and dense doesn’t make it sound appealing, but “Bad Timing” sounds like how those slow motion videos of flowers unfurling after the frost melts from their buds look. “Bad Timing” also proves my long song theory right with flying colors—the best ones have enough changes to keep you interested for ten minutes. This track in particular feels like two songs in one. The first is a homely, acoustic ditty, which peacefully bows out at the 2:50 mark, giving way to a chorus of plucked strings and, of all instruments that should sound shimmery, an accordion would be my last guess. Yet Jim O’Rourke pulls it off, making it shudder and glimmer along with the synths. You’re lured into a soft, ambient sense of security, but like rot climbing up the roots of a plant, O’Rourke tears away at the music, fiber by fiber, until the remnants are ablaze in distortion and ascending mayhem by the time you reach the eight and a half minute mark. It’s clear to me the magic O’Rourke made with producing almost all of Wilco’s albums—he has such a talent for taking a simple melody, stretching it out and contorting it as easily as a chef kneads dough. He put something entirely unassuming into the oven, and something wholly unexpected came out the other side once the experimental yeast rose.

On another note: I can’t for the life of me find who made the album art for Bad Timing, but it’s just so charming to me.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Annihilation – Jeff Vandermeer – everything becomes slowly, gradually unrecognizable and strange, just like the progression of “Bad Timing”

“Ends Meet” – Panda Bear

Brian Wilson is alive and well, but what I’ve listened to of Sinister Grift feels like a glimpse into an alternate universe where Brian Wilson got temporally airlifted from the ’60s into the 2020s and had to find his way around. That, and if he’d been given nothing but a knapsack full of various synths and electronic knickknacks to carry with him on his time-out-of-time journey. “Ends Meet” is the definition of psychedelic, constantly fading in and out of focus like ripples over sunlit water. Noah Lennox’s voice also feels piped in from beneath the shallows of a reef—released this February as it was, everything I’ve heard of Panda has been carefully crafted to be specifically summery and aquatic, at least in sound (see: “Comfy in Nautica,” “Ferry Lady”*).

The existential lyricism feels at odds with the music at first glance: Lennox is confronting what we all have to confront at some point in our lives: we’re all gonna die, so what else is there to do? His answer is as simple and as difficult as any: appreciate everything in it, bad and good: “And when it is my time/Dig it all.” It’s a lesson I’ve been chipping away at for the better part of last year, what with my difficulty in staying present and not projecting myself into possible futures (not the time traveling Brian Wilson ones, unfortunately), but the way that Panda Bear takes it musically seems different than most. Sonically, “Ends Meets” feels so daydreamy and almost dissociative—its head isn’t in the clouds, it practically is the clouds. Even the face on the album cover of Sinister Grift looks like their mind is somewhere else entirely. But that in and of itself is putting that sentiment of being un-anchored into music and into words. It’s a jarring pairing in concept, tackling this subject matter with such an acid-tinged, vacation-like musical landscape, but to me, it’s the feeling of letting go of that burden, of knowing that all you can do in life is appreciate every facet of it.

*the “Ferry Lady” music video is about as trippy as you’d expect, so if you’re sensitive to flashing images or eye strain, you’ve been warned.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Library of the Unwritten – A.J. Hackwith – “They got a spot to bury you/It’s not news, you’re tremblin’ for what?/Just keep it in the groovе (Don’t let up)/But keep the doorways shut…”

“La Vie en Rose” (Édith Piaf cover) – Louis Armstrong & His Orchestra

I was never much of a Disney kid, but Wall-E, one of the first movies I saw in theaters as a kid, will always unlock a particularly special place in my heart. Star Wars was my true introduction to sci-fi, but the more I think about it, Wall-E was right up there in conditioning me to fall headfirst into the genre. Even now, in my twenties and watching Wall-E for a grade to analyze the gender dynamics for a class on Disney and gender…it broke me. I knew it would. Sure, Mark Fisher cites it by name in Capitalist Realism when he talks about how Hollywood has subsumed anti-capitalist resistance and yada yada yada, but…god, how could even the most shriveled soul not be moved by an almost newborn race of humankind returning to the same earth, babies treading over barren ground as the giddy captain gleefully lists off all the plants that can be grown in it? And you’re already crying? And then they hit you with “Down to Earth?” Diabolical.

Part of my class’s discussion on the gender dynamics of Wall-E, beyond how we’re socialized to see Wall-E and Eve as boy and girl even though they’re…intelligent machines with no gender to speak of, was how the viewer is socialized to show their relationship as romantic (and traditionally heterosexual) from the markedly older, “classic” media surrounding them. Notable songs and clips from Hello, Dolly! do the heavy lifting there, but in the barest sense, Louis Armstrong’s cover of “La Vie En Rose,” one of the more ubiquitously recognized love songs of this century, which plays when Wall-E first becomes romantically interested in Eve, adds to this effect. And while I see the argument, as women and gender studies/queer theory-pilled as I am, I really don’t think Wall-E is nearly as guilty as a whole cadre of other Disney movies who have improperly shaped particularly women and young girls’ views on how gender and romance should be. For me, “La Vie En Rose” feels as pure as Wall-E and Eve, in all of their innocent, nonsexual romance. Even as a little kid, only knowing Louis Armstrong from “What A Wonderful World” (and thinking that Grover from Sesame Street was behind the vocals), something about those piano flourishes unfurled a kind of petal inside of me. It’s one of the first examples I can name of a melody really scratching an itch in my brain. I’m next to illiterate when it comes to jazz, but Armstrong was clearly one of those rare people who could give his trumpet such an individual voice—by the end of the song, you could call it just as much of a vocalist as he is. Paired with the cinematography of Wall-E’s tire treads tracing neat lines in the trash-laden dirt, something about it felt so neat, so meant to be, a puzzle piece shifting into place. Both of them are clean, and yet not sanitized—they’re sweet, earnest, pure. A part of childhood me is warmed every time I hear this song, obviously, but even outside of that context, the soothing spell of this rendition is undeniable. As is Wall-E.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Cybernetic Tea Shop – Meredith Katz – Louis Armstrong’s take on “La Vie En Rose” is obvious coffee/tea shop music, but combined with my Wall-E association, why not return to this cozy, tender tea shop in a distant future?

“Here Comes Your Man” – Pixies

The music video for “Here Comes Your Man” has to be one of the more uncomfortable music video experiences I can think of, not because of any particular content, but more because you get the overwhelming feeling that nobody wants to be there. Every time they pan to Frank Black or Kim Deal (or Joey Santiago, honestly), they look like they’re trying to telepathically kill the cameramen, Professor X style. They don’t want to be there, the camera crew doesn’t want to be there, and they don’t want you there either…oh, my bad, sorry for the intrusion. I’ll see myself out. For good reason, though—they were averse to making music videos, and when their label pressured them to do so, they famously decided to stick it to the man and gape their mouths open like fish while the lyrics were playing. Given…well, everything I’ve heard about Frank Black, it could easily just be them being petty, but for an underground band who were achieving success they didn’t seem to want, it’s understandable.

I always feel a kind of odd shame when I like That One Song/Album That Got Popular with a certain band that the band openly hates with a passion. If I’d had the time to write a post last week, I would’ve said the same thing for Julian Cope and “Someone Like Me”—My Nation Underground is one of his poppier albums, and one that he wasn’t satisfied with. (See also: “Me Myself & I,” a song I love, but that De La Soul inserts “we hate this song” into live performances of the lyrics…yeah, you get the picture.) For Pixies, they weren’t satisfied with this pop song to the point where they almost never performed it live. But…it’s so good. Sure, it’s simpler and more accessible than some of their work, but they knew how to make one of the most iconic alternative pop songs. Most alternative rock fans would probably be able to recognize that bassline immediately, all thanks to the timeless talent of Kim Deal. There’s layers to the genius of it—the harmonies of Deal and Black, the vague, surrealist lyrics about homeless people boarding a train before an earthquake, the faint comfort and hope in spite of that. The chorus of “here comes your man” was a last minute addition, but it’s always given a kind of solace for me, ever since I was a kid, before I understood the lyrics of the verse. Even with the bleak nature of the verse, it’s always implied a kind of salvation or relief to me. Bottom line: sometimes, even if That Song got popular, it’s obviously popular for a reason, but how talented a band’s craft is can often shine through in the charts.

Sometimes. We don’t talk about “Creep.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

If Tomorrow Doesn’t Come – Jen St. Jude – a similar kind of disaster-oriented scenario to the song, of people scrambling to safety in the wake of a planet-destroying asteroid.

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 10/20/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

This week: we regret to inform you that the All Born Screaming brainrot has persisted for 6 months. It may be terminal. Please stand by.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/20/24

“Reckless” – St. Vincent

So. Almost 6 months later, and All Born Screaming remains etched onto the folds of my brain. I already talked about how the climax of this song hit me like a train in my review of the album back in May, but rest assured that time has not dulled its potency. 2024 has been a spectacular year for album intros (see: “IDEA 01,” “Wall of Eyes,” and, I’ll preemptively say it, “Lost”), and All Born Screaming’s “Hell Is Near” rightfully claims its crown in those ranks. But “Reckless” feels like the rightful evolution of it—I’d even to as far to say that it would be stunning as a whole track. Imagine that, combined into about 8:06 of a suspenseful, cinematic build. That’s perhaps the only thing that could make the sonic lightning strike at 2:38 even more explosive. Like a well-shot film, suspense is what drives “Reckless” to its pinnacle of art—every lyric is a footstep down a pitch-black hallway, constantly wary of the faulty wiring in the ceiling that’s ready to burst. Knowing that Clark has opened every setlist for this tour with “Reckless” makes the salt in the wound that SHE DIDN’T COME TO COLORADO ON THIS TOUR even saltier. WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US, ANNIE? YOU WENT TO IDAHO, FOR GOD’S SAKES!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Death’s Country – R.M. Romero – “If your love was an anchor/And I am lost at sea/I hear the riders calling/They’re calling for me…”

“Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” – Melanie

I came here from the wonderful show We Are Lady Parts (highly recommended if you need a laugh and also want to see some Muslim punks being badass and very vulnerable on TV); it’s a fitting soundtrack for the bitter disappointment of the band at the end of the first episode of season 2 as they watch their hit song being covered by newcomers, only for said newcomers to get the bulk of the praise and applause from the crowd.

Given this song’s partial legacy of being butchered for commercial jingles (confirmation that corporate executives never listen to lyrics), there’s something predictably depressing about “Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” becoming exactly what the lyrics talk about. In an slow lament that slants towards an older Broadway standard, Melanie sings of how her music has been dragged through the mud: “Look, look what they’ve done to my song/You know, they tied it up in a plastic bag/And then turned it upside down, oh Mama/Look at what they’ve done to my song.” That kind of Broadway feel is the ideal form for this song—it begs for a spotlight on a sordid character with mascara running down her cheeks as she belts her sorrow into a rapt crowd. The more I think about it, I feel like it’s one of the premier victims of the ’60s-’90s fadeout in music—why, why, why would you start turning the volume down right when she hits the most impassioned belt of the whole song? Melanie specifically wrote it about how her producer (who also happened to be her husband) would often halt her creative process in the studio, diverting her from her vision when he saw what he wanted to be a hit.

“Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” has been covered a slew of times over the years, most notably by greats such as Ray Charles and Nina Simone (!!). Sometimes, with a song that covered, it’s simply a matter of fame, but it taps into what might be one of the most universal fears of anyone in the arts: trying to put yourself out there, but then getting your vision sanitized and reshaped for mass appeal. It’s always at the back of my mind. Being unreceptive towards any criticism is one thing, but I’m always afraid of what I put out there being somehow not right for what publishers want. Whatever finished products I eventually publish will have to be rigorously edited, of course, but it would kill me if there were key parts of my stories I had to dilute just so I could sell more copies. Of course, careers in the arts are often…not the most well paying, to say the least, and I almost fear having to succumb to diluting my vision just because of money more than I fear the dilution itself. Would I be able to live with myself? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. No, if. I’ve gotta have a little faith. If this song—released in 1970—was able to break through the constraints of producers and the music industry at large, maybe it isn’t all as bleak. Melanie did get the last laugh, from what I can tell, eventually gaining more creative control and outliving her husband. Sadly, she passed away this January, but her legacy precedes her. I’ve only been familiar with Melanie for a woefully short time, but I hope she’s resting easy.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Not Here to be Liked – Michelle Quach – “Look at what they’ve done to my brain/Well, they picked it like a chicken bone/And I think that I’m half insane, ma…”

“Final Fantasy” – TV on the Radio

Picture this. You open up Instagram. TV on the Radio has posted an ominous picture of their logo on their page. They’ve been on hiatus for almost a decade. When the world needed them most, TV on the Radio returned…

…just to play a few shows in New York, LA, and London.

They’re at least reissuing Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes for its 20th anniversary and we got “Final Fantasy” out of it. Hopefully the slow creep of the bass and the ominous, razor-sharp lyrics are enough to distract from the fact that we’ve been sidelined…again. I’m just telling myself that they’re cooking up something new, just so I can sleep at night. You can’t just rise from the dead like that only to play…what, nine shows in only 3 locations? Come ON.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Some Desperate Glory – Emily Tesh – “You’ve made a family/Now kill ’em dead/Oh it’s not me Ma/It’s what the TV said…”

“Like Humans Do” – David Byrne

When I heard this in the background of a post on Instagram earlier in the week, I got hooked through the screen—you ever just hear a 10-second snippet of a song and are immediately impelled to download it? It’s so delightfully hooky. No wonder Microsoft chose this song as one of the samples of music for their Windows XP Media Player. It’s now widely accepted as the unofficial “Windows XP Anthem”—the radio edit, that is; Microsoft used the radio edit, which cut out the following line: “I never watch TV except when I’m stoned.” (They replaced the line with “We’re eating off plates and we kiss with our tongues.”) Either way, even though I never got to experience “Like Humans Do” in that context, thank you to whoever decided that David Byrne’s music would be the flagship of Windows XP.

Byrne wrote the song as an imagined perspective of a Martian watching humans interact; the lyrics have a simplistic, domestic calm to them, placidly and warmly recounting the everyday normalities of human life that we take for granted: “For millions of years, in millions of homes/A man loved a woman, a child it was born/It learned how to hurt and it learned how to cry/Like humans do.” With its clanging, light percussion and that classically funky, Talking Heads groove, it’s a jangle that really does embody one of its more delightful lyrics: “Wiggle while you work.” You bet I was IMMEDIATELY wiggling when I first heard this song…and on every subsequent listen. And it feels exactly like the kind of song Byrne would write. It’s in that same vein of Björk’s “Human Behaviour,” but with more of a calm appreciation rather than baffled curiosity on the subject. Relating it back to Byrne’s autism diagnosis later in life doesn’t explain everything, but as with Björk, who said that she “may be semi-autistic” in an interview in 2011, it does make sense for Father Autism himself to take on this kind of subject matter. Of course, you can zoom this lens out to apply this observational mentality to anyone on the fringes of normality, but it does feel like a role I’ve embodied as a neurodivergent person myself. You watch others to learn how to act, and sometimes, you feel like you’re another species collecting enough information to try and blend in. Of course, the freedom comes when you realize that there’s no point in blending in, but for me, at least, there was never a shunning of neurotypical behavior—simply a realization that I would never fully be able to imitate it, and I’d found enough people who understood and words to explain why I am the way I am. “Like Humans Do” feels like the calm epiphany of discovering difference once neurodivergent acceptance becomes reality.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Beautyland – Marie-Helene Bertino – listen, I try not to double-dip on book pairings, especially since I paired this book with “Always Crashing in the Same Car” last week. But…the alien observing humans connection is right there!

“Breaking the Split Screen Barrier” – The Amps

Normally, I take a liking to any given Kim Deal-related song fairly quickly. But “Breaking the Split Screen Barrier” wasn’t so instantaneous for me. The beginning sounds like a series of false starts layered on top of each other. The prolonged space between each chord doesn’t just feel like a ruse: they pile up on top of each other so much that you feel like you’re being served three courses of red herrings. And I hate to say that about The Amps! I don’t think I’m that impatient of a listener, but I’m used to them getting straight to the point (see: “I Am Decided”).

After a few listens, however, you realize how much that slow build pays off. Every instrument has more crunch and crackle than a wadded-up ball of tin foil. In between the gravel and abrasion, Kim Deal murmurs her borderline surreal lyrics into a void curtained by echoing near-abrasion. Maybe I am guilty of being one of those damn gen z-ers with an attention span shorter than that of a minnow, but I think I can be patient—especially when Kim Deal is concerned. It paid off for “Breaking the Split Screen Barrier.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2) – Eliot Schrefer – “I know you’re not sane anymore/That doesn’t mean you’re fine…”

BONUS: the great Jim Noir has a new album Jimmy’s Show 2, out on November 5th! He released a music video to accompany the lead single, “Out Of Sight,” this week:

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 9/29/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

This week: high school throwbacks, off-kilter oddities, and a few too many people trying to explore each other’s minds than I’m comfortable with. Cool it, Charles Xavier…

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 9/29/24:

“Piano Fire” (feat. P.J. Harvey) – Sparklehorse

It’s a Wonderful Life is one of those albums that took me a bafflingly long time to listen to. I know, I know, I did it to myself, but the fact that I didn’t pick it up when I was 15 and irreparably mired in Good Morning Spider astonishes me. It’s probably owed to the fact that I was also even more irreparably mired in OK Computer, which tends to overshadow things a tad bit. Looking back, maybe it was for the best that I wasn’t on an all-Sparklehorse diet at that age. I already looked pathetic scuffing my snow boots through the hall while blasting “Maria’s Little Elbows” through my earbuds between classes. I was 15, guys. It was 100% that serious, trust me.

What I can say is that I think I would have felt the same way about It’s a Wonderful Life at 15 as I do now—it’s a triumph of an album. Scattering through surreal urgency and subdued melancholy, it has every kind of Sparklehorse you’d like—along with a smattering of collaborators. It’s almost funny how different said collaborators are (take Nina Persson’s delicate backing vocals on “Gold Day” and then Tom Waits growling like a hulking ogre on “Dog Door”), but the power of Sparklehorse has always lain in the disparate elements Mark Linkous cobbles together. Like some kind of American Gepetto, he constructs all of his songs into tiny figures made of warped wood and bird bones, and what totters to life creaks with every step. They’re quaint creatures with acorns for heads and cigarettes and toothpicks for legs, but there’s no other way to love them save for exactly as they are.

Those he chooses to collaborate with feel much the same way. P.J. Harvey, of all people, was a left-field choice when I first heard about her featuring on “Piano Fire.” The only Sparklehorse song I could conceive being able to contain the kind of raw fury she exudes was “Pig,” and that had already come and gone by the time It’s a Wonderful Life came out. “Piano Fire,” however, is one of the most upbeat tracks on the album; you feel a racing urgency to it, immediately sprinting down an overcast beach the minute the first guitar chords kick in. Or maybe it’s the searing heat of airport tarmac that you’re sprinting across the minute you hear the opening line: “I got sunburnt waiting for the jets to land.” Sunburnt describes “Piano Fire” surprisingly well; it has the texture of an old photograph left out in the sun too long, all of the colors now bleached to unnatural, pale shades. Linkous almost takes a backseat on his own song, never raising his voice when he dishes out surreal vignettes of “Fiery pianos wash up on a foggy coast/Squeaky old organs have given up the ghost/Fire them up and kill the piano birds.” But that urgency is why P.J. Harvey is so perfect for this song; once the chorus kicks in, her soaring voice provides the jet fuel for this creaky old jet to careen off the runway and into a sky littered with the strangest birds you’ve ever seen.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Love in the Time of Global Warming – Francesca Lia Block – Block’s bizarre, dreamlike prose certainly fits with the surreal imagery that Linkous employs in this song—and the majority of his catalogue.

“Gigantic” – Pixies

In almost two and a half years of making these Sunday Songs graphics…this is the first time I’ve double-dipped. It was bound to happen eventually, not just because my music taste is finite, but because this song has lingered with me from a young age. I faintly remember being around five or six and hearing this song in my dad’s old car, driving in fading light down the road back to my house, and hearing the iconic chorus: “Gigantic, gigantic/Gigantic, a big big love.”

I’ve often talked about how simplicity in lyrics can convey more than the most complex songs in some cases, and if you need further proof, look no further than “Gigantic.” Most of that work is done by the immense, never-fading talent of Kim Deal, who sells every metric ounce of explosive love in this song; with every cry of “A big big love,” you get it—there’s no other words that can adequately describe the kind of secretive, all-consuming romance that swirls through every pluck of the bass. That opening bass riff is the shy, cracking open of a bedroom window when the parents are asleep, an invitation with a blushing, anticipatory smile. What follows never fails to knock me off my feet. I say “knock” and not sweep or lift me off my feet precisely because that’s what it feels like, as though the ground has opened up beneath you, and you’re falling headfirst into the unknown—contained in a kiss that consumes every cell of your body.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Kindred – Alechia Dow – all-consuming, explosive, and intergalactic love.

“Take Me To The River” – Al Green

I’m sure Al Green is a perfectly nice guy, but…that album cover and title is not it, man…”Al Green Explores Your Mind?” Can he…can he not?

The fact that they were just naming albums anything back in the day aside…how did I not know about this song for so long? I’ve loved the Talking Heads cover for years, but somehow, it never dawned on me to look it up and discover that it was a cover. There’s something to be said for the phenomenon of white artists’ covers of songs by Black artists overshadowing the originals, but this isn’t quite the case—from the looks of it, between the amount of times that this song has been covered (most recently by Lorde for a Talking Heads tribute album, oddly enough) and the royalties from [checks notes] those animatronic wall fish, it’s cemented itself as an enduring classic of soul. I’m sure Al Green isn’t complaining about the latter though, given that he’s gotten the most royalties from the fish cover. Yet no matter the strange journey that “Take Me To The River” has taken, none of it has overshadowed how deliciously groovy it is. It’s endured for five decades in counting precisely because it wastes no time in getting straight into its slinky, infectious funk. Green’s voice flies from slick to howling in seconds and recovers in record time, all in time with the blasts of an impeccable horn section. 50 years, and you can’t not bop your head. I’m still not jazzed about Al Green exploring my mind, but I can’t deny that he worked some undeniable, immortal magic with this one.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Final Revival of Opal & Nev – Dawnie Walton – though the musical genres differ, the atmosphere and climate of the ’70s runs through both.

“Secretarial” – A.C. Newman

I’ve had a turnaround. I’ll be honest—even though I’ve liked several New Pornographers songs since I was young, “Secretarial” has always bugged me for some reason. I never hated it, but it was always one of those songs where, over the years, I developed a reflex of just skipping it whenever it came on shuffle. I didn’t question it for a while. Many years have passed, and for once, I didn’t skip…and here we are.

A.C. Newman—and most of The New Pornographers’ catalogue, by extension—has this songwriting style that’s just so distinctive in a way that I can’t put my finger on. Even if you separated his or Neko Case’s voice from the lyrics, I could hear a line like “So come on, let the sun in/We’ve been gunning for promotion/Postering the slogans on the roadsigns.” and immediately go “yup, A.C. Newman wrote that.” What makes it so distinct has bugged me for years, and to this day, I can’t fully put my finger on it. The closest I can say is that their specific diction has an inherently off-kilter quality to it. Newman is never overly verbose, but the way he arranges words is always slightly askew. His lyrics dwell in the thin limbo between obtuse poetry and sense, situated in a place where you can decently get the metaphor he’s going for, but instinctually, you know that those syllables just don’t go together neatly. “Secretarial,” like another other Newman product, might as well be a puzzle, in that sense, but one that was put together wrong with the pieces that only look like they should fit together, but stick and slide against each other. I’ve never been great with time signatures, but this one is angular enough to match the slanted lyrics. Even if you don’t know the guy, you can’t deny that it takes some serious talent to not just think of but pull off “Lady, it’s secretarial” as a hook.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Lagoon – Nnedi Okorafor – I’ve used this book more than once, but it was right there…

“One day you blew across the water/After racing through the countdown/Spewing ancient wisdom like your friend/The revelation had come and they were looking for me…”

“Henry” – Soccer Mommy

Oh, early Soccer Mommy…oh, “Henry.” This one sure soundtracked many a one-earbud-in free draw in art class my sophomore year. I think it was in the fall that I found this song as well; it carries a distinct smell of wet leaves and wood chips in the pumpkin patch. Cheesy as the title of this album, the self-released For Young Hearts, is, it’s not like it’s a lie. Here’s to many more high schoolers listening to this in art class.

It seems that “Driver” has put a pin in this tradition, but “Henry” is part of a long lineage of Soccer Mommy songs about the seduction of Bad Boys™️ (see also: “Death By Chocolate”). Of course, the natural conclusion was that the ultimate bad boy was to be conquered in “lucy,” that being…the devil himself. (God, I need to stop. I sound like a youth pastor.) But here in 2016, “Henry” chronicled the kind of guy who hung out behind the high school, smoking cigarettes in a leather jacket, and giving you a wicked smile as you passed. Sophie Allison’s younger voice, along with the plucky instrumentation (cannot get enough of that bass), makes you feel like you’re following a mischievous wood sprite through sunlit woods. Light and lovesick, it captures that heady, teenage love drug that makes every step stumble: “‘Cause Henry has a laugh like fire/And it’s spreading through the streets and burning on telephone wires/I don’t know just what it is/But he’s driving all the good girls bad with that evil smile of his.” Soccer Mommy’s had that golden, indie touch all along—”Henry” remains a classic to me.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Carry On (Simon Snow, #1) – Rainbow Rowell – “I don’t know/Just what it is/But he’s driving all the good girls bad with that evil smile of his…”

Since this song consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 9/15/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

Before I get into today’s songs, I’ve also compiled my graphics for the last few weeks when things got busy. I made them (because I love making silly little graphics and giving them silly little color palettes), so, for your casual perusal, here they are:

8/18/24:

8/25/24:

9/1/24:

9/8/24:

This week: contradictions, distinctive voices, people who deserve to cover The Beatles, and…okay, the jury’s still out on whether or not what seems to be the final boss of hipster white boys can pull off mariachi, but that’s here too, I guess? I don’t know enough about mariachi to judge…

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 9/15/24

“Danger” – Panda Bear & Sonic Boom

There’s something to be said for how distinctive Panda Bear (a.k.a. Noah Lennox) sounds—so much so that, having only heard a handful of his songs, when I heard that he had a hand in “Danger,” my immediate reaction was oh, that makes complete sense. What made even more sense was Sonic Boom (a.k.a. Peter Kemper); I had no idea what his deal was until my dad explained that he was one of the original members of Spacemen 3…and all of the puzzle pieces came together in complete harmony.

Someday, in some future age, I’ll bet that some scientists will come up with a way for us to be able to physically touch music. (It physically touches us, in a way, so maybe the inverse isn’t all that far away…who knows.) Whenever they come out with the playlist and the associated objects or capsules of sensation, I dearly hope that “Danger” is among the first, because it’s already a step ahead of the game; it’s so textured and layered that you can almost feel its tendrils brushing against your ear. Technology and creativity have collided to the point where these two have made a song that sounds exactly how it feels to touch one a puffer ball—y’know, the squishy balls you get at Walgreens or something with all the noodles sticking out? All manner of electronic textures were thrown in the stew pot, and the result is so elastic yet so hard-edged, so malleable yet so solid, so transparent yet so dizzyingly dense. Panda Bear’s voice, whether it’s singing or just letting out a spontaneous pigeon’s coo, collapses into neon dust motes with every note.

I’d that imagine that somebody with synesthesia (specifically chromesthesia, the variety where the person links sound to colors, shapes, and movement) would have a field day with the densely-packed prize box of auditory textures in “Danger.” Even with the cries of danger, I feel myself pulled under, drowning in a sea of spores and rubber, with every listen. Maybe that’s the danger—slipping under as your senses surrender to the prickles of this song?

As if making a whole album of, presumably, the same layered insanity (see also: “Edge of the Edge”), Panda Bear and Sonic Boom released an EP with Mariachi 2000 de Cutberto Perez consisting entirely of mariachi renditions of several tracks from Reset, including “Danger”—now reworked as “Peligro.” I’m not sure if I’m fully on board, but…those visuals should’ve been with the original track in the first place! All the colors and morphing shapes…

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Stardust Grail – Yume Kitasei – “All that you do for me/Can’t you see what you do to me?/Gave you a pot for the tea to brew/Give me a spot for the art to grow…”

“Zero Sum” – The Smile

Here I was thinking all of my most anticipated albums of 2024 had come and gone…two Smile albums in one year? WE ARE SO BACK. THOM YORKE HAS BLESSED US!! Between this, the TV on the Radio reunion, new Soccer Mommy in a little over a month, and a Kim Deal solo album on the way…the party’s far from over! Days like the one with the trinity of TV on the Radio, Smile, and Kim Deal news make me remember how silly the people who claim that there’s “no good music anymore” truly are. That’s all on you, chuckleheads. Skill issue. Look harder. (Apply this mentality to all forms of modern media. Add water and stir. You’ll find what you’re looking for.) And sure, all of the bands I mentioned either are or have been a part of mainstays in the alternative scene, but that doesn’t negate the fact that innovative music is still being made, dammit. And if you’re looking for somebody truly new? Boom. Soccer Mommy.

I anticipated that there was going to be at least one more album from The Smile on the horizon, but it really does seem that Yorke, Skinner, and Greenwood just cannot stop their creative flow, and god, I am so grateful for it. Although their first offering, “Don’t Get Me Started,” was…weaker, though not bad by any stretch of the imagination, the official album announcement of Cutouts came with twin singles “Foreign Spies” and “Zero Sum.” The latter was the obvious standout, and not just because it’s the only fast-paced one of the bunch. The Smile and slow-paced songs are by no means a bad combination, but “Zero Sum” is just so supercharged with frenetic energy that it automatically stands out. Chances are, if you happened to inject this song in liquid form into the veins, it would probably have the effect of chugging 5 energy drinks in one sitting. It’s just so spidery, so rapid and skittering that you get eyestrain from trying to track just where the beat goes. I can already see Thom Yorke’s signature jerky, angular dance moves onstage once they slip this into the regular rotation for the tour. (You guys are doing an American tour, right? Right? Right?) Horns triumphantly blare amidst the mile-a-minute guitars and synths (now that’s some “FASTER, JONNY” for you), and Yorke, of course, has a dystopian, buzzword-filled collage of lyrics: “Thinking all the ways/The system will provide/Windows 95, Windows 95.” If there’s anybody who can get me dancing to a repetition of Windows 95, of all things, it’s these guys.

Oh, and…RADIOHEAD HAS BEEN REHEARSING, YOU SAY? I hereby apologize for my inevitable outbursts once a) Cutouts comes out, and b) whatever the hell comes out of this Radiohead Rebirth. WE ARE SO BACK!!!!!!!!!!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Finna – Nino Cipri – “A clipped tongue, acting dumb/Somewhere in the past in a re-run/Thinking all the ways the system will provide…”

“Fortunately Gone” – The Breeders

I don’t typically associate The Breeders with any kind of whimsy. Not like they’re some kind of depression-fest or anything, but they’re not afraid to get on the heavier, crunchier side of things—listen to any track from Last Splash and you’ll know what I mean. So when I paid attention to the lyrics, it was a surprise to see how plainly and delightfully nonsensical they are; “Fortunately Gone” reveals its heart right in the opening verse: “I wait for you in heaven/On this perfect string of love/And drink your soup of magpies/In a pottery bowl.”

The more I think about it, the less surprised I should’ve been by this divergence into tenderly fantastical lyrics. I say that because Kim Deal’s voice feels molded for this purpose. No matter how much distortion you throw at her, there’s a bare-hearted openness to her voice. Her voice is the healing of a scar on your knee, always tender, but never without some semblance of hope, joy, or some manifestation that blood and bruises aren’t all there is to life. Even amidst the grit and ominous air they artfully paste over their cover of The Beatles’ “Happiness is a Warm Gun,” complete with the muted flick of a lighter brought to life, Deal whispers the title refrain with the tone of a child in an empty room watching sunlight peek through the slats of window blinds. That same hope is what buoys this tale, a story of a woman in heaven waiting for her past lover to die so that they may reunite: “Fortunately gone, I wait for you.” Kim Deal was made for the role of this lovelorn, afterlife-confined piner, and nudged into less than two minutes, every tender note lands just as the lyrics tell you so: “Sweetly as it drops upon your head/Just like it did today.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Bad Ones – Melissa Albert – reaching through the veil to find out the truth about your best friend’s death—not just in terms of what killed her.

“I Am I Be” – De La Soul

I’m inevitably getting all College™️ with this one, but can you blame me? I spent the other day talking about how this Richard III monologue displays the dissolution of the character’s sense of self. The amount of contradictions it has fits more with the next song I’m discussing (see below), but the clear-cut divisions reminded me of the title here—”I Am I Be.” It functions partly as a vehicle to add in some silly guest features and ad-libs throughout the song, starting with “I am Shortie, I be 4’11′” and devolving into silliness in the background as the song progresses (“I am Patrick, I be the biggest shrimp collector in the world,” and by the end “I am Bob, and I be really tired of doing this, guys”). After their hard left turn into cynicism of De La Soul is Dead, there’s no denying that their propensity for goofiness never faded away, however much they wanted to deny it.

But as a part of the lyrics, “I Am I Be” functions as parts of the self. After three albums, all three members of De La Soul had gotten squeezed like an empty tube of toothpaste to form an image, whether it was the flower power revival of Three Feet High and Rising or the pressure to crank out another classic post-De La Soul is Dead. From the snatches of Buhloone Mindstate that I’ve listened to, it seems like this album was the limbo outside the two—not completely happy-go-lucky again, but always willing to push the boundaries of what hip-hop could be. They were determined to not let the music industry grind them down, despite the bleak first lyrics: “I be the new generation of slaves/Here to make papes to buy a record exec rakes.” This is where, for me, the “I Am/I Be” division comes in. I’m really English majoring it up right now, but hear me out. I am represents the core of the (De La) soul, as dictated by Posdnuos (“I am Posdnuos”), whereas “I Be” is the circumstances where they find themselves (“I be the new generation of slaves…”). Neither negates the other, but together, they form a completed picture of the self. All after the latter lyric concerns Pos’s past, from collaborators abandoning him to his experience being beaten down by the music industry. But never at any point, amidst all this bleakness, does he crumble under the pressure; the end of the first verse is an assertion that no matter what life throws at him, he will pledge to stay true to himself: “If I wasn’t making song/I wouldn’t be a thug selling drugs/But a man with a plan/And if I was a rug cleaner/Betcha Pos’d have the cleanest rugs, I am.” There: bookending the last line, I am, the true self, returns. Dave’s second verse ends in a similar way: “I keep the walking on the right side/But I won’t judge the next who handles walking on the wrong/Cuz that’s how he wants to be/No difference, see I wanna be like the name of this song, I Am.” For a band that have been through the ringer (and largely emerged triumphant, though it took them decades to get there), it’s already a world-weary assertion, but one that never gives up the spirit—to this day, the surviving members of De La Soul continue to spread their artistry and positivity, now even further reaching thanks to their hard-won legal victories surrounding their music being on streaming. Through it all, they’ve stayed true to I Am.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

And Other Mistakes – Erika Turner – “Every now and then I step to the now/For now I see back then I might have acted like a fool/Now I won’t apologize for it…”

“Echo” – Kristin Hersh

Crazy how I haven’t managed to talk about Kristin Hersh in one of these posts yet…I’m admitting my bias before I make a statement as sweeping as this, but I truly believe that Kristin Hersh has one of the most unique singing voices I’ve ever heard. It lies at an unusual confluence of the tiniest rasp, an understated Southern drawl, and a nasally tremble that, despite there not being words about it that sound complimentary (sorry, Kristin), is only a banner declaring her voice to be like no other. Separately emphasized, those elements would be off-putting (I only mean the Southern drawl in the way that modern country singers lay it on so artificially thick that it becomes meaningless to the All-American image they’re peddling), but where Hersh lies, they’re the perfect parts.

Whatever Hersh intended Sky Motel to mean (I’m between the sky over a motel or a floating, retro-futuristic motel with a rusty sign advertising vacancies on some kind of hover-buoy near the spaceship parking lot), it’s a fitting feel for “Echo.” Faint cricket songs decorate the intro, and combined with the gray, distorted smokestacks and skylines of the music video, it packages that feeling of staring up at the sky from a hotel parking lot, exhausted and operating on too little sleep. The opening lyrics also conjure the space directly before that—for me, somewhere in the dimly-lit back of a taxi from the airport: “White label on the backseat/glows an artificial green.” Amidst ambling keyboards, Hersh seems to stumble through the streets, torn between extremes; caught between the stability of “an empty lifestyle” and the allure of “the very loudest sound.” Every lyric is a contradiction: “I’m loving everybody/And hating everyone I see.” Hersh straddles the two poles just as the music does—each chorus roars from the bug-flecked quiet of the verses, and drunkenly stumbles back into tranquility just as quickly. Though she never lands on which direction she’s pulled towards, there’s a solemn acceptance that the middle ground is in sight, but just out of reach—”Do you hear the loudest sound/Floating out on the echo?” That violent oscillation of contradiction is what makes “Echo” stick so solidly, both in the inability to land between two extremes and only being able to see the most sparing glow of solace—a space I often find myself as such a sensitive person. It’s easy to get swept up in that turbulence, and easier said than done to reach out to that floating echo.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

I Am the Ghost in Your House – Mar Romasco-Moore – “I crave a midnight something/I crave and something hunts me down/I’m scaring everybody/I’m wearing everybody down…”

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 1/21/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

The fact that all of January’s color schemes have been somewhat dreary is a complete coincidence, but it fits with all the dead foliage, snow, and misery outside. One of the suckiest months, without a doubt. But this week is more fun, at least: throwbacks of all kinds, British Invasion remnants, and my 6th grade hyperfixations coming back to haunt me.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 1/21/24

“Rattlesnake” – St. Vincent

Last week, I was overcome by the urge to re-listen to several of my favorite albums. The urge was mostly just me going through Hunky Dory and part of Aladdin Sane on David Bowie’s birthday (happy 77th, wherever you are on Mars), but I decided to put off the first new-to-me album until I got back to school. (More on that next week.) So, for the first time since…oh, probably middle school, I listened to St. Vincent’s self-titled album in full—my third favorite album of all time, only beaten out by OK Computer and Hunky Dory in my book. I have no doubt that I’d give it the same praise had it not been this way, but St. Vincent is just one of those albums that’s been such an unmistakable part of my life that it’s practically embedded in my genetic material. I played this album into oblivion back in middle school, and it’s impossible to pull out a single memory I have tied to it, since it’s painted the landscape of the time when I was 11 to when I was about 13 so distinctly. Car rides, plane trips, afternoons clutching my iPod—Annie Clark was always there. Somehow, I also used to be able to listen to music while playing minecraft, and that album (along with Hunky Dory) was the soundtrack to many a sloppy house dug into the side of a hill. But now, after so many years of growth, this album remains as truly glorious as my younger self thought it was. Not a single hair out of place, and not a single note that isn’t pumped with energy and fervor. Every soaring, jerking guitar solo still sends me into the stratosphere, and every bloody-lipped turn of phrase never fails to light up my brain. There’s just a sheer power that shakes the earth with every song; even in the quieter moments, you can’t help but be hypnotized by the chrome world that Clark created. The robed, silver-haired persona that Clark took on during this era was self-described as a “near-future cult leader,” and I’ve always liked that aspect, but I can’t help but fully understand now. I usually think I’m a levelheaded person, but I’d join that cult, no questions asked. This brand of exhilarating power puts me under a spell every single time. It’s still crazy to me that there were a whopping five bonus tracks beyond the initial 11. They must’ve had to physically restrain her from creating the most masterful pieces of music and throwing them all on the album on the first go. We weren’t ready.

Way back in 2014, “Rattlesnake” was the first song off of this album that captured me. (“Birth in Reverse” came soon after, and for some reason, it took me longer to grow on “Digital Witness,” but now I adore it to death as much as the others.) At this point, I’d gone all the way into clinging onto St. Vincent’s music like a leech. For this song in particular, it was in no small part due to the fact that it clicked into my middle school WondLa hyperfixation perfectly (see below), and at age 12, there was no higher praise that I could give a song, however abysmally I misinterpreted it. There have been many such songs over the years, but for once, my analysis of this one wasn’t all bad—the comparison still works. “Rattlesnake,” like its namesake, is prickly all over; from the opening synths to the burning, angular guitar riff towards the end, which was apparently so intense that she sliced her finger while recording it in the studio. It’s jagged like lightning—if you could touch this song, it would snap back at you with a jolt of electricity. And as Annie Clark recounts an autobiographical experience of a “commune with nature” in the middle of the desert, her breathless verses brim with beads of sweat and uncertainty as she turns tail: “Running, running, running, rattle behind me/Running, running, running, no one will find me.” In between the heatstroked repetitions, Clark hides one of the many golden lines on this album: “I see the snake holes dotted in the sand/As if Seurat painted the Rio Grande.” God, if that isn’t a stellar image. Like a feral cat, “Rattlesnake” brims with fear and flexing claws, skittish and ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move. It’s a song that palpably crackles with unbridled energy, unleashed from desperation and the desert heat.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Search for WondLa – Tony DiTerlizzi – low-hanging fruit here (for me, at least), but for once, 6th grade me was onto something. It’s hard to find a song that fits this book better than the progression from “Am I the only one/In the only world?” to “I’m not the only one/In the only world.” (Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah, ah.) Healing my inner middle schooler.

“You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” – The Beatles

I’ve always wondered what the Help! album cover is supposed to mean—if I squinted, I thought they were spelling out the letters to “help” (Paul’s pose does look a bit like an L, but none of the others look like the right letters…); as it turns out, Robert Freeman, the photographer for the album cover, originally intended for them make the positions for spelling out “H-E-L-P” in flag semaphore, but he scrapped the idea since he thought that the Fab Four were distinctive enough no matter what pose they were striking, so he just had them…spell out gibberish in flag semaphore. The more you know.

Everything written about the versatility of the Beatles can’t be understated, but the more I listen to some of their earlier music, it’s clear that the kind of wild creativity that defined them was already gestating before they started getting into their more experimental period. Even if this is more of a tribute to Bob Dylan’s highly influential style than anything, they’ve still managed to make it so unmistakable Beatles. It’s one thing to be able to create a nice, downtempo folk tune with some scattered flutes and tambourine here and there, but even in such early days, the rhythm of “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” is so salient that you can’t help but be bobbed by it like a bottle floating over the sea. The whole song has the sway of a flimsy wooden boat on the ocean, gently pitched up and down by the waves with every strum of the guitar. John Lennon’s wavering, raspy inflections are jutting and precise in all the strangest places, but that’s part of what makes this so memorable—it’d be easy to record a cover of this with a flat voice inflected with enough melancholy to sell it, but there’s an enchanting storyteller’s waver in every word. It’s the kind of song that could draw a crowd through the woods—added with the image of the four Beatles standing shoulder, I imagine a slowly expanding crowd circling around them as Lennon sings “Gather ’round, all you clowns/Let me hear you say/Hey! You’ve got to hide your love away…”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Into the Heartless Wood – Joanna Ruth Meyer – “you’ve got to hide your love away” takes it pretty literally, but the both the melancholy folk sway and the uncertain, forbidden romance match this gorgeous modern fairytale.

“Come Lie Down With Me (And Sing My Song)” – Elf Power

We regret to inform you that I’m still riding the Elephant 6 high, even though I haven’t even seen the documentary yet. I’ll get to it eventually.

Unlike bands like the Apples in Stereo and the Olivia Tremor Control, Elf Power’s music usually doesn’t grab me instantaneously; there’s no denying their creativity, but it doesn’t often click with me the way that the other Elephant 6 bands do. Typically, I’ll just like the song, listen to it two or three times, and forget about it. Next to the raucous energy and whimsy of their compatriots, they seem more reserved. Reserved isn’t always a bad thing for me, but with the company they’re in, it seemed like they would have had something brighter to offer. “Come Lie Down With Me (And Sing My Song)” is similarly reserved, but it has an atmosphere that most of the other Elf Power songs I’ve listened to lack. Even if there wasn’t a mention of “rain on the sea,” this song is one of the rainier songs I’ve ever heard, practically the distorted gray of a windowpane streaked with falling rain. The acoustic, folksier approach is steeped in a strange, distant melancholy; the lyrics feel innocent enough—invitations of love in hidden spaces—but I can’t help but feel a sense of unease lurking in the background. It has the same eery air that a lot of age-old folk standards have, like something passed along during the Great Depression and whispered on the biting wind. It gives me the same lingering unease of a Syd Barrett song, like it wanted to be whimsical and innocent, but couldn’t deny some hidden darkness. And even if I’m not fully on the Elf Power bandwagon, there’s no denying that this feeling is a difficult one to replicate and successfully pull off.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Depths – Nicole Lesperance – rain on the sea, vague discomfort looming large.

“All Nerve” – The Breeders

It’s always fascinating to see the exact ways that a talented singer’s voice changes as they age. The inevitable deepening, and often thickening, that comes for everybody, but just like how each of our voices are unique, each voice changes uniquely. There’s David Bowie’s voice expanding its horizons, deepening like an incomprehensible chasm until it began to quiver at the edges, the soft, sonorous rumble that’s slowly crept into Damon Albarn’s voice as he’s reached middle age, and the whispering rasp that laces the edge of Kate Bush’s voice in her most recent recordings.

For Kim Deal, it’s like some sort of invisible bottom has opened up, making her voice thicken like firm cake batter after a good round of stirring with a spatula. It feels strangely compressed, like most of the airiness has been squeezed out, leaving the back of the throat emotion to clamber through the crawlspace that’s been left behind. But what age never left behind for any of the Breeders was the youthful, reckless spirit that seems to have defined them. This could’ve easily been written back in the ’90s and been an alternative hit, but it works just as well as it worked six years ago. Age has not dulled the spitfire sensibilities of their songwriting—”All Nerve,” as both the title and the album suggest, is just as sparking and feral as much of their other catalogue. The stripped down instrumentation, mostly just bass, sparingly plucked guitar, and faint drums that linger at the corners of your eardrums, make the lust and desperation all the more lusty and desperate. The bare-bones feel of it all, for the first minute or so, at least, add to the feeling of gathering up all you have left—be it physical belongings or strength—to race across whatever wasteland lies ahead to see “you/Especially you.” And it’s just like the Breeders to add the song’s repeated sucker-punch of “I won’t stop” just as the guitars come crashing down like rocks on the highway.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Skyhunter – Marie Lu – desperate love in wartime, the feral kind with bloodied steel wings.

“Sunny Afternoon” – The Kinks

Not to bring it back to Britpop, but I’m bringing it back to Britpop. The oft-quoted difference between Blur and Oasis was that Oasis aimed to be the next Beatles (which…even if their music was any good, that would still be presumptuous), but Blur was more interested in delving into the quirkier side of the British Invasion era, namely the Kinks. And even though I’ve been hearing The Kinks in the car from a young age, the more I listen to them, the more I realize just how much Blur gleaned from their lyrical style. The minute I heard “Sunny Afternoon,” I just realized that this was “Country House” before “Country House” was a thing. Chronologically, I guess it’d be the “Country House” sequel after the character’s dissatisfaction blows up and he loses everything. Also fits with “Charmless Man” quite well.

Setting aside my recent habit of listening to music with even the briefest mention of sunshine to get myself through the January doldrums, there’s such a unique texture to “Sunny Afternoon” that pervades in so many of the artists that they influenced, Blur included. There’s a lingering taste of the hottest days of the year, squinting your eyes through the sunlight as the warmth bakes your skin. Maybe a lingering taste of lemonade, something sweet…I guess an ice cold beer, in this case, but overshadowing the summer sweetness is the knowledge that this is all that the narrator has left, now that “The taxman’s taken all my dough/and left me in my stately home.” It’s not full melancholy, but a sarcastic imitation of it that’s only there to humor the narrator—enough to hammer in the point that…yeah, whoever this dude is, he probably had it coming, even if he did lose everything. Yeah, “All I’ve got’s this sunny afternoon,” but I suspect that whatever your (ex) girlfriend told her parents about that “drunkenness and cruelty” wasn’t entirely baseless. The whole song is just “awww, you poor baby, you can’t sail your yacht? Go cry about it.” “Sunny Afternoon” has a sly sort of playfulness, the kind that makes you imagine the narrator imagined as a cartoon character, moping onscreen as you pass The Kinks themselves. (The camera would pan over to Ray Davies, who’d do some kind of silly, exaggerated frown as this rich dude slips on a banana peel, or something.) And amidst all this, you’ve got some of the prettiest harmonies I’ve heard on a Kinks song in the chorus—”Lazing on a sunny afternoon” sounds like it’s misting away like droplets of water coming out of a sprinkler, gently dissolving in the heat.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Chosen and the Beautiful – Nghi Vo – usually, most of the books here are ones that I’ve enjoyed, but sometimes, there’s no denying the way a book and a song pair, even if you didn’t enjoy the book. This one wasn’t my favorite, but it’s a retelling of The Great Gatsby, so you can see where the “dissatisfied rich people losing everything” thread comes in.

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 10/29/23

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

Here we are, almost at Halloween, the most wonderful time of the year! And to celebrate, I’ve brewed up a very special post for you, complete with…

…a Christmas color palette.

Hear me out. I didn’t intend to schedule the Christmas colors this week. It just happened. And it’s currently snowing where I am. Please. Please hear me out guys

Will last week’s Sunday Songs graphic cheer you up, then? It’s nice and autumnal…(and it’s got some nice songs, if I do say so myself. Would’ve written about them, but I was exhausted.)

LAST WEEK’S SUNDAY SONGS:

And now, enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/29/23

“Maquiladora” – Radiohead

I’ve long since accepted my status as a die-hard Radiohead fan, but I’ve noticed that most diehard Radioheads fans tend to put The Bends in time out in the corner in favor of Kid A and OK Computer. It’s understandable to a certain point—OK Computer is my second favorite album of all time, and Kid A is one of the most important records in modern rock history. But I’ll always have a soft spot for most everything that came out of the Bends era. Yes, it’s far more of a conventional rock record and there’s little of the experimentation that Radiohead became known for, but it’s consistently emotional and chock-full of some beautiful, punchy guitar work. Who can deny the grandeur of “Fake Plastic Trees?” Who can deny that “Planet Telex” is one of the coolest rock album openers of the 90’s, if not of all time? Come on now.

But there were a host of EPs (that I need to explore) that came out shortly before the full album released, with sprinklings of songs that would later appear on it (in this case, the iconic “High & Dry” and “Planet Telex”). Besides having some fantastic cover art (I think I had a dream in early high school where I had it on a shirt), this EP really has something of a hidden gem. The minute the distorted guitars kick in, my first thought was similar to hearing “Burning Bridge” by Kate Bush for the first time—how the hell was this a B-side? How was this not on the album and something like…I don’t know, “Bones” didn’t get relegated to throwaway EP status? It’s incredible. It has to be, since it’s in such legendary company, but “Maquiladora” is worthy of it. The grinding, tidal wave texture of the combined guitars of Thom Yorke, Johnny Greenwood, and Ed O’Brien is always a Radiohead trademark, but it really screams out on this track—the minute they kick it, it’s like watching yourself being buried in rubble, but with a smile on your face. Thom Yorke hasn’t quite wrestled the squeaky cracks out of his voice, but somehow, it sells the crunching angst of the sound ten times more. Everything cascades down around you as you watch it crumble, and the result is an explosion of sound that makes The Bends such a staple of the 90’s. It’s hard, it’s crunchy, and even the softer, twinkling moments screech along like a car past the speed limit, leaving trails of exhaust in its wake. Again: how this track wasn’t on the album is beyond me. Good god. It could’ve been perfectly sandwiched between “High & Dry” and “Fake Plastic Trees.” I’m just saying.

“I Just Wanna Get Along” – The Breeders

Speaking of punchy, early-to-mid 90’s rock…do I smell a coincidentally great transition? (It’s all gonna fizzle out by the time we get to the next song, don’t worry…)

My god, I love the 90’s. I love the 90’s. I really need to listen more of The Breeders, because this hits an especially sweet spot for me. It toes the line between abrasive and absolute tightness; it’s got a punk sensibility to it, but with a sanded edge that smooths it into something truly meticulous in how much it rocks. For a song that’s only a minute and 44 seconds long, it has such a punch to it that could only be so self-contained; it’s rare that I like a song and don’t want to extend it if it’s so short. Some songs were meant to be a smack in the face and then fade away like a sparkler fizzling out. And this song has just the same bite as a sparkler—the double guitar act of twins Kim and Kelley Deal, combined with the thrumming bass of Josephine Wiggs, makes for a deliciously spiky, driving sound. Kim Deal’s deadpan vocals only elevate it—the dry delivery of the line “if you’re so special/why aren’t you dead?” feels like spitting a wad of chewed-up gum in the trash in the most gloriously 90’s way. Deal delivers the song’s title in the same way; it’s not a chant so much as it is a rolled eye and a shrug as you reapply red lipstick in the mirror. There’s a sharply stamped period at the end of each repetition: “I just wanna get along. I just wanna get along.” It oozes confidence, but not in an arrogant way: it’s the kind of confidence of pulling yourself onto a motorcycle without a word and leaving everyone else in the dust.

“Bliss” – Annie Clark

“Bliss” starts at 0:32 in this video.

I’ve done it. I’ve reached peak obscurity in one of these posts. Streaming? No can do. Available to purchase? Doubtful. All we’ve got is a few YouTube videos where the “full” version is still missing a song (or two?), complete with some crusty pixelation on the album art. Mwah.

I am become annoyingly into St. Vincent, scroller of wikipedia rabbit holes. Even though I first heard about this EP during my initial St. Vincent superfan period in about sixth grade, I hadn’t gotten around to listening to it until now. Ratsliveonnoevilstar is St. Vincent before she was St. Vincent; she released the EP in early 2003, when she was a student at the Berklee College of Music. Most of the only copies that exist are floating somewhere around Berklee and possibly on eBay. What remains accessible is three to four songs—Wikipedia only lists three, but “Good Morning” (the first song in the above video) is only on this YouTube version, and “Breathing” seems lost to the ether. And from what Clark herself has said about the EP, it’s likely to stay that way:

“It was horrible. I did that my sophomore year or something. I haven’t listened to that in a really long time. I would say I should have put a little more Bill Callahan and a little less Herbie Hancock in it.”

And upon listening to it, I’m glad I listened to it then and not in middle school, because I sincerely doubt that I would’ve lasted more than 2 minutes at age 12. Now, I can say this affectionately, as someone who is around the age Clark was when she made this EP: this is the most college student thing I’ve ever listened to. She’s made her voice theatrically lower than how her voice sounds as a grown woman, and most of the EP is a very particular brand of over-the-top avant-garde, jazzy-sounding circularity. Most of it’s pleasant to listen to, but it still has an air of “look at me, College Student, producing High Art™️.” But it’s not all bad. Songs like “Bliss” are still full of the meticulous threads that led to the wonderfully clever art-pop of Marry Me five years later. It’s a portrait of a very artsy young musician, one who hadn’t hit her stride yet, but was brimming with inspiration and determination. Clark had a very specific sound in mind, and she was well on her way to nailing it. It’s certainly not your ordinary acoustic college student EP—I guess that’s bound to happen if you’re going somewhere like Berklee, but either way, there’s something endearing about this effort; it’s far from perfect, but it’s the seedling that would go on to sprout one of the most iconic musical careers of the 21st century. #26 on Rolling Stone’s 250 Greatest Guitarists of All Time list? Those lists may be exceedingly subjective, but come on. More than deserved.

I love the sound of old men foaming at the mouth in the Rolling Stone comments section in the morning.

“Backslider” – Toadies

There’s no bond like the bond between a high school girl and a simple but spectacular song that she learned how to play by herself on guitar. It’s a perfect warm-up song; part of why I’ve loved playing guitar more than piano is that I’ve feel more connected with the material that I can use for keeping my fingers dextrous. And when I was first learning this and slowing the song down on YouTube, it doesn’t sound silly like a bunch of other songs do (play “Drive My Car” on 0.5x speed, I dare you)—this just sounded so perfectly bluesy.

I suppose this could be the closest to Halloweeny that this week’s songs come to, but I really should’ve gone with something like “Possum Kingdom” if we wanted some real Halloween. Alas, “Backslider” was on the brain more. But that’s not a complaint—I’ve been coming back to this, the aforementioned vampire song, and “I Come From the Water” since 8th grade, and I have nothing but fond memories of them. That chugging, grinding guitar never fails to hook me just like it did when I was 14; there’s a dark grime clinging to every Toadies song I’ve ever heard, muddy and hazily dark, like the humidity that clings to your forehead at night in the South. (A feeling that they probably knew well, what with the band hailing from Texas.) The flies lingering around the band in the video really tie it all together. It’s a sludgy, eery texture that pairs with everything I’ve heard of theirs, but especially with this, a series of vignettes of Todd Lewis’ Southern, Christian upbringing and the creeping dread ever-present within it. All crammed in just over two and a half minutes, all of that grime and dread is as tight as ever—not polished, but sculpted into something fully-formed.

“Glue Song” – beabadoobee

Since I first posted about beabadoobee way back in July, I’m veeeery slowly sprinkling some of her songs into my rotation. And although not everything’s my speed, I’m not regretting this mini deep-dive into her music! Again, if anyone has any starting points as far as album goes, be my guest! Onto the Sisyphean album bucket list…

An open letter to anybody looking to make a high quality teen rom-com: please, this needs to go at the very end. Imagine that: you see the two protagonists look into each other’s eyes, their hands slowly slip into each others, they smile. The opening strings kick in, camera cuts back to them looking into each other’s eyes. Roll credits as beabadoobee’s voice hits. Perfection, right? I’m starting to see why so much of her catalogue is made up of love songs—from what I can tell, that kind of sweetness has been her trademark for years. “Glue Song” is one of her newest efforts, and it’s easy to see that she’s known for that kind of love song craft. She has the perfect voice for these kind of tenderhearted, smiley ballads—gently high-pitched, feathery, and glimmeringly sweet like honey. As soon as she declares that “I’ve never known someone like you,” I can’t help but believe it. And just like the orchestral arrangements in the background of “the way things go,” the strings and horns trilling in the background elevate “Glue Song” into the perfect bite of cheek-blushingly, dress-twirlingly lovey-dovey declarations. It would be easy to make something like this incredibly sappy, but Bea Kristi’s light voice is light enough to feel like she isn’t trying to pack a ton of unneeded sugar into every note—she knows the balance, and she keeps it simple, gentle. It’s just the right amount of sweetness—enough to melt on your tongue, but not so much that it rots your teeth.

Bonus: she also released a version of “Glue Song” as a duet with Clairo—it’s just as lovely!

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!