"All Art Constantly Aspires to the Condition of Music"

Two dope albums worth checking out that came out over the past week and this weekend with videos/songs dropped below: Abstract & ambient noise expressionist Tim Hecker's Ravedeath, 1972 and Radiohead's long-awaited latest The King of Limbs, both of which are just excruciatingly good; one is a blissful dive into warped sonic wreckage and pipe-organ-smeared-by-synths-and-haze airiness, and the other is a surprisingly funky Brazilian dub kind of thing but not surprisingly amazing in the most peerless way (because it's Radiohead and I more or less expect amazing peerlessness from them). Both, however, are deeply transportive records but for very different reasons. The above quote is from Walter Pater, an English art critic, essayist, and fiction writer, and I agree with its assertion without reservation.

Quick note on Radiohead in general: I don't think there's been a single group of musical artists more deft at and willing to change, explore, and evolve without seeming to ever worry one bit about how this alteration will be received, and for that I'm incredibly thankful and excited. This record, for example, is one of the funkiest of their outputs, a word that I don't imagine had been used often in discussing Radiohead.

And to bookend the titular Pater quotation, I'll end with a Thomas Mann from The Magic Mountain, which if you haven't read then shame on you: "Can one tell – that is to say, narrate – time, time itself, as such, for its own sake? That would surely be an absurd undertaking..." He goes on to align storytelling (and I would argue art overall) with the tempo of experience, rather than the representation of some kind of linear, Newtonian time, which is false and misleading. But tempo, musicologically speaking, concerned with the mood and the speed and the pace and the feel and the psychological and physical space of a given piece, seems more appropriate to talk about when talking about the way in which we, as humans, experience time. Storytelling is eventually compared directly to music making, both similarly described in their ability to "only present themselves as flowing, as a succession in time, as one thing after the other."

Bradford Cox is Unleashing

Few contemporary musicians utilize their internet presence the way Bradford Cox does. Lynchpin and brainchild behind both Deerhunter and Atlas Sound, one being his full band project and the other being his solo venture, respectively, Bradford is renowned for uploading onto his blog countless gift tracks, demos, b side cuts, tracks that didn't and/or won't make albums, holiday songs ( e.g. Christmas Synths!). So I've always known the dude is not only absolutely musically brilliant but also pretty formidable. I knew he produced a lot of music, and I knew a lot of it was superb; it wasn't until over the past few days when I realized Bradford is unrivaled and sui genaris in terms of his prolificacy: over four days, he's released a Bedroom Databank collection in four volumes, all of which are beyond par and a hell of a lot more enjoyable than quite a lot of music out there right now. The fact that these are the dude's outtakes is obscenely admirable and should inject not a small amount of envy in a lot of musicians. The music just pours out of him, it seems. Below, I'll link to the blog and the four individual posts for each volume.

Bedroom Databank Volume 1
Bedroom Databank Volume 2
Bedroom Databank Volume 3
Bedroom Databank Volume 4

Per usual, these are all gratis. And uncontrollably gorgeous. 

88 Keys & More

In the spirit of John Cage, Germany's Volker Bertelmann, who records under the moniker Hauschka, paints haunting regional landscapes through the inventive and playful finger-workings of his prepared piano thanks to a bevy of acoustic sonic distortion. A prepared piano, for anyone unfamiliar, is piano with objects placed atop or in between the strings or on the hammers themselves, or in some cases having some strings deliberately detuned, so that the piano produces an unusual and idiosyncratic effect. Volker takes this idea to the extreme and practically unloads a thrift store worth of bric-a-brac and gewgaws on his pianos, flourishing his music with a lush and hypnotic layering of sounds, touches and often mysterious wintry textures, so much so that listening to his records gives one the sensation that you're listening to a full company playing, complete with percussion and everything. He stepped into NPR's studios last week and gave a small performance, showing the process going into the preparation and then the ensuing result, which result Volker says he enjoys because, as I've always admired, it puts something in motion and creates something going on that is, as the composer and the pianist, beyond his control.



Ping pong balls, tic tac containers, paperclips, leather, necklaces, foil, shish kebab skewers, anything and everything is on the table and on or in the piano for Volker's performances. The result is a sort of celebration of aleatoric brio.



In addition to performing two more or less improvised pieces, for which his prepared piano methodologies seems naturally destined, Hauschka also played a piece from his most recent LP, Foreign Landscapes, entitled "Mount Hood." Beyond his latest output, I recommend: everything he's ever recorded. The dude is magical.

Fool's Gold & Vincent Moon All Up in Your Audiometric Headspace

I mentioned not too long ago the increasing number of exciting and excellent happenings in and around Los Angeles' rumbling independent music scene, the diversity, the quality, the fun atmosphere brought to the stage by many if not all of these artists, among other plauditory characteristics. Fool's Gold was one I had mentioned. They're a big, tropically toe-tapping collective who draw some major influence from multiple different forms of African music (soukous, East African, Touareg desert blues, etcetera), blending their shared love for those more warmer sounds (think lots of syncopated rhythms; shimmering, prickly guitar work) with 80s dance-influenced pop, all that with the Israel-born Luke Top on vocals singing melismatically more often in Hebrew than in English. This isn't mildly-Afropop-influenced indie music, which there is, I stress, nothing wrong with on its own merits and is quite good; but this is something all on its own, American pop music filtered through global pop music and stewed around a little more, handed back and forth in rhythmic and sonic exchange, the after effect of which gives us Fool's Gold's savory, compelling sound, fit for both headphones and large parties alike. This is inspirational singalong dance music in every sense of the word, and it's done wisely and intricately. So it was only a matter of time before Vincent Moon et al hooked up with these guys. Moon (whom I am perfectly aware I unabashedly admire) caught up with them for his Soirée de Poches series in Paris during a show they had done with Kouyaté & Neerman. Twenty-four lush minutes here. Their debut came out in '09 and has been spinning for me since then on a fairly recurring basis. Pop this video on, pick up a book, and enjoy. Or if so incline, dance. (And buy their record.) Los Angeles should be championing, celebrating, and talking about Fool's Gold constantly, wildly invigorating music that should be keeping people sweaty and dancing well into sunrise.

Los Angeles' Strides

L.A., at least according to certain pop cultural dictums held up and reinforced by decades of musico-imperial gasconading artists and heavyweights, is always in some weird, extant-non-extant insurrection against New York City for who has the better music scene, and it's an odd little bataille, now fought with subzero pretensions, deeper-by-the-month v-necks, and testicle-obliterating jeans.  In reality, it's probably not really there, but at least the illusion of it is. San Francisco, for its part, doesn't seem to care much either way where it fits into the whole scheme. Recently, though, L.A. has seen quite an escalation in not just good local music but fantastic local music which is getting a lot of the attention it rightly deserves (Local Natives [on freaking NPR], Flying Lotus, Active Child, HEALTH, Ariel Pink and his freak show of awesomeness, Fool's Good, to name a few, not even to mention No Age or Liars, whom I would argue, Liars that is, doesn't count for any one particular city and instead resides on a bizarre and vital portal of existence all their own). And unlike a lot of the stuff coming out of New York (read: Brooklyn) L.A.'s music tends, at least to me, to arrive in your ear buds with a little more sonic and tonal and, cutting-down-to-the-bones of matters, stylistic variance. This might have something to do with the demographical and architectural designs of these two cities--New York being denser than a slab of lead and Los Angeles sprawling for miles; so you've got one as this tightly-wound incubator where not rubbing shoulders is a spatial impossibility and the other where vanishing off into your own little world is easily done. Baths is the at-this-time one man project of Will Wiesenfeld, who was in San Francisco about two months ago and dropped into the Lower Haight's Robotspeak to give this in-store performance of "Apologetic Shoulder Blades" and "Plea". First thing you notice is the guy's wicked metacarpal sorcery. Then you notice that the songs are pretty great, and Will's voice, which I personally love, for its almost unbridled childlike strain. Wild, dazzling stuff. An analogous behavior to the music: slow motion diving into a warm, bottomless lake in which you don't need gills to breathe. He's got a record, Cerulean, coming out later this month on Anticon, which you should definitely pick up.

Paradise, I Adore You

This is miles and miles beyond even the skinniest trail of a doubt one of the best stripped down, acoustic live performances I've seen in a good while. One guy, a guitar, a harmonica, and his loop pedals in a spooky, depopulated church (when aren't churches spooky?). That this "one guy" just so happens to be Bradford Cox of Deerhunter and, as seen here, Atlas Sound might be an unfair advantage to that aforementioned title simply due to the guy's overall consistent musicianship and flair. Pitchfork just dropped another Atlas Sound track from this "Live at the Cemetary Gates" series, the soft and moving  "Sheila." As with most things Bradford Cox puts together, it's highly powerful and worth checking out. What makes Cox and company doubly more interesting, at least to me, is he's said before that they were influenced by Dennis Cooper, which may in and of itself be somewhat trivial to the casual listener but hearing how musicians have dug up influences through literary works is a major fascination of mine, maybe because of the way it mirrors the ways in which I find influences for my writing in music and visual art. There's no doubt in my mind that this is one of the preeminent artists of our time and to watch him work is pure, privileged joy.  

Best New Artist Most Likely To Blow Your Speakers

Sleighbells is an electrocore (how many genres can we apply "-core" to? Plenty) dance-pop duo out of New York comprised of Allison Krauss on vocals, formerly of legit teen poppers RubyBlue; and guitarist Derek Miller, who used to specialize in egging on the monster dance circles playing in front of Florida hardcore stalwarts Poison the Well, for whom he also held down guitars and more or less orchestrated those ever-so-brutal breakdowns. I, in fact, remember when Poison the Well first began back in '97 out of the whole post-hardcore/hardcore revival going on all up and down the East Coast, so it's interesting to see what some of those guys, like Miller, are doing now. On paper the joint venture between these two sounds odd, but the combinatory effects of this union are sonically stunning and almost overpowering. Despite all the strong pop sensibilities found here, this is an aggressive, in-your-face record, one to which you can either dance frenetically or rage out and break something, which is exciting, to see and hear that there are still independent musicians who aren't afraid of abandoning delicacy in favor of getting outrageously, ear-bleeding boisterous. It all feels urgent. Here, in Sleigh Bells, Miller controls most of the assaultive rhythmic crunch and frequency-defying beats while Krauss smoothes it all over with her sweet honey-and-whiskey soaked voice. Maybe not all the unexpectedly, there's a raw sexiness about all of this. With so much energy packed into these songs they can't help but be sexy.

Treats, their debut LP, came out yesterday but only on digital. If you want it on wax or--ick--CD, you're going to have to wait until June. Before that all they'd had was a few teaser songs. You can stream the entire album for exactly one week thanks to the good people over at NPR. And for goodness' sake, turn this up loud. I'll throw the first single "Tell 'Em" down below along with one of their earlier tracks, "Crown on the Ground.'

There's been a glut of releases over the past few days which have just been so incredibly good it's hard to decide what to talk about. Of them: The National's new one, Broken Social Scene's new one, Zola Jesus, The Radio Department, Flying Lotus, GOBBLE GOBBLE, too many. This suffices for now. 

"Tell 'Em", the first single. 


"Crown on the Ground", one of their older demos, a little rougher around the edges but still a banger.

Celebrating 20 Years!

Merge Records, whose list of greats is long and unfair (Arcade Fire, Xiu Xiu, Dinosaur Jr., Wye Oak, Dan Bejar and Destroyer, Spoon, and so on), rings the bell for its 20th year in producing groundbreakingly excellent independent music. To mark the occasion, they're releasing SCORE! 20 Years of Merge Records: THE REMIXES!, a collection of Merge artists from the past and present remixed and remastered by some heady names. You can stream the entire record right now for a limited time only on Merge's website, from which you can also purchase the masterful compilation. If you do anything, please check out breakcore producer Jason Forrest's remix of Arcade Fire's "No Cars Go." Anthemic, moving, heartrending, and ultimately inspiring as an original, Forrest's interpretation is an echo chamber of all those things times ten, letting the harsh, driving rhythms and the split, drawn out words bounce around long after the six minutes is over. 

Quick Brain Pummeling

UK producer Gold Panda puts together seemingly dismembered beats with chopped, captivating vocals that originate from multiple directions, all of which manages to lead you astray, strap you into a keelboat, and then quickly (without asking you for permission, that perilous, international motherfucker) sends you abroad somewhere along the waterways, never to return. Wherever this journey takes you, you love or will grow to love. And this is a picture of Big Sur, which also makes you think of vessels; shipping off to distal lands, places, and worlds to which you might never venture let alone worlds that might not even exist; and beauty. One mustn't forget beauty. 

Let's Get Cold Together

Memoryhouse is a gleaming hypnagogic pop group hailing out of wonderful Ontario, Canada. Their debut EP The Years, a four song, thirteen minute glacial dream-trek through their bleary landscape of blurred time and warped-fidelity, honey-dripping melodies, is so silencing it makes you want to fall in love with something, anything, and as quickly as possible--the nearest wall. And then maybe break up with it. "Bonfire", a video for a new song from their limited to 500-copy "To The Lighthouse" single, is unmitigatedly (and for some reason heart-chokingly) joyous. You need to love them. With a full length coming out soon--May, if I recall?--be sure to check them out now. Visit their Myspace or go directly to the label,  Arcade Sound, to download their EP, which, like Communist rebels, they've made available for free. There are times when I don't know how I would remain sane without music like this (not the free part, but the shockingly talented part). Oh, and when those tambourines kick in? Feel free to feel wonderfully weightless.

Modern World, I'm Not Pleased to Meet You

Let it be no secret that I'm obsessed or at least curious with all things Dan Boeckner, Spencer Krug, and Dante DeCaro, who consistently take music in new and untapped directions. Among them in all their side-projects and amalgamations are the bands: Wolf Parade, Sunset Rubdown, Handsome Furs, Swan Lake, Frog Eyes, Johnny and the Moon, and Fifths of Seven, all of which--mind you--are each and every one of them fantastic and fresh and inventive and imperative. It's almost inundating. And yet, the music amongst all of their various projects--while it's impossible for there not to be certain similar quirks--is all different and startling and poignant.

Beyond that, it's just straight up good fucking music. To know that their are musicians out there today who are more interested in the music as art, the musical process, and the expansion of their musical forays than the commercial success of that music is refreshing. Upsetting as it is that many, many people will never hear these bands, it's wonderful to know they're out there and to be able to catch them live while they're touring the globe. Here's a clip from one of their earlier records:

Oh! And news: New Wolf Parade record coming out soon! Entitled Expo 86.

Vincent Moon Makes More Magic

Once again, Vincent Moon and La Blogotheque prove themselves indomitable. Hot off the trails of Beach House's stellar LP Teen Dreams, Moon's side project Les Soirée de Poche gave the Baltimore artists twenty or so minutes in front of a small coffee house crowd to do little else than dazzle them with their seductive, meditative pop; lead singer Legrand's scratched-and-smoothed, haunting voice of yearning; and some pretty damn fine French as well. 

In a pragmatic view of the world (where there is often a wealth of despair and where hope isn't much more than a philosophy), one of the greatest experiences is finding exuberant, live music that is on par with or even better than the recorded version. It's a simple thing to ask of life and yet for some reason so elusive to find. Below, however, is just that. 

You Don't Move Me Anymore & And I'm Glad That You Don't

A couple months back, the enlivening-as-ever psychedelic Brooklynites Yeasayer released their sophomore followup Odd Blood, whose highs soar above and beyond their earlier work (All Hour Cymbals) and whose lows (drawn mostly from a heightened sense of ambition and interests) still aren't all that bad. "O.N.E.", their second single, explores the dual vocal direction they're taking at its very best. The video, as aptly described by Pitchfork, is "characteristically batshit" but no less ridiculously engaging. Oh. And the song is a funky 80s pulsating anthem all on its own merits.

Tourné à Montreal

After waiting what has literally been years, I'm ecstatic to be able to say that Vincent Moon and Tegan and Sara finally got together in Montreal for a three song film session, featuring one song from their latest LP Sainthood, another from Tiesto's latest batch of dance house recordings (that included T&S among many notable others, Bloc Party, Jonsi, etc.), and one more, the song "Nineteen", from the twins' previous album The Con.




Catch all three of these amazing, pared-back versions of three already amazing songs right here. And as always, support the shit out of Vincent Moon. 

The Paul Klee of Prose

At the excited suggestion of one of my mentors, I've been reading the dismally little-known but incredibly talented, "bewitched genius" (Newsweek) Robert Walser, the Swiss-German writer whose uncanny way of looking at the world and metaphysical modernism was a precursor and an inspiration to historical and modern writers alike, all the way from Kafka and Christian Morgenstern to Max Goldt and W.G. Sebald. Regarding Walser, the lauded Herman Hesse put it simply: "If he had a hundred thousand readers, the world would be a better place."

What's refreshing about Walser (and there's a lot that's refreshing about Walser) is he seems to be equally at home and adept at writing three page flash fiction fables or anecdotes as he does writing longer stories and novels, which makes reading him at times a triple-layered experience, as each form presents a different style and a different way of storytelling and as a result a different emotional response from the reader. It's quite chameleonic and markedly different from many contemporary writers, who seem grounded in one form, one style--hell, even one story--and wary of veering away from that.

This short piece is the entirety of a story entitled "Nervous", a one paragraph block of interiority and slightly altered repetitive thoughts, a determined and flawed declaration of self, a tender, honest, and fragile introspection of aging:

"I am a little worn out, raddled, squashed, downtrodden, shot full of holes. Mortars have mortared me to bits. I am a little crumbly, decaying, yes, yes.I am sinking and drying up a little. I am a bit scalded and scorched, yes, yes. That's what it does to you. That's life. I am not old, not in the least, certainly I am not eighty, by no means, but I am not sixteen anymore either. Quite definitely I am a bit old and used up. That's what it does to you. I am decaying a little, and I am crumbling, peeling a little. That's life. Am I a little bit over the hill? Hmm! Maybe. But that doesn't make me eighty, not by a long way. I am very tough, I can vouch for that. I am no longer young, but I am not old yet, definitely not. I am aging, fading a little, but that doesn't matter; I am not yet altogether old, though I am probably a little nervous and over the hill. It's natural that one should crumble a bit with the passage of time, but that doesn't matter. I am not very nervous, to be sure, I just have a few grouches. Sometimes I am a bit weird and grouchy, but that doesn't mean I am altogether lost, I hope. I don't propose to hope that I am lost, for I repeat, I am uncommonly hard and tough. I am holding out and holding on. I am fairly fearless. But nervous I am, a little, undoubtedly I am, very probably I am, possibly I am a little nervous. I hope that I am a little nervous. No, I don't hope so, one doesn't hope for such things, but i am afraid so, yes, afraid so. Fear is more appropriate here than hope, no doubt about it. But I certainly am not fear-stricken, that I might be nervous, quite definitely not. I have grouches, but I am not afraid of the grouches. They inspire me with no fear at all. 'You are nervous,' someone might tell me, and I would reply cold-bloodedly, 'My dear sir, I know that quite well, I know that I am little worn out and nervous.' And I would smile, very nobly and coolly, while saying this, which would perhaps annoy this other person a little. A person who refrains from getting annoyed is not yet lost. If I do not get annoyed about my nerves, then undoubtedly I still have good nerves, it's clear as daylight, and illuminating. It dawns on me that I have grouches, that I am a little nervous, but it dawns on me in equal measure that I am cold-blooded, which makes me uncommonly glad, and that I am blithe in spirit, although I am aging a little, crumbling and fading, which is quite natural and something I therefore understand very well. "You are nervous," someone might come up to me and say. 'Yes, I am uncommonly nervous,' would be my reply, and secretly I would laugh at the big lie. "We are all a little nervous," I would perhaps say and laugh at the big truth. If a person can still laugh, he is not yet entirely nervous, if a person can keep calm when he hears some distress he is not yet entirely nervous. Or if someone came up to me and said: 'Oh, you are totally nervous ,' then quite simply I would reply in nice polite terms: 'Oh, I am totally nervous, I know I am.' And the matter would be closed. Grouches, grouches, one must have them, and one must have the courage to live with them. That's the nicest way to live. Nobody should be afraid of his little bit of weirdness. Fear is altogether foolish. "You are very nervous!"

'Yes, come by all means and calmly tell me so! Thank you!'

That, or something like it, is what I'd say, having my gentle and courteous bit of fun. Let man be courteous, warm, and kind, and if someone tells him he's totally nervous, still there's no need at all for him to believe it."

(The above story was taken from New York Review Books Classics' Selected Stories: Robert Walser, March 2002, NYC)

Also, incidentally, as I wrote that story out to instrumentalist artists Balmorhea's record All is Wild, All is Silent, the seven minute heart-swell song "Truth" came on, and the combined effect of those two tasks was fucking exhilarating.

Vingt-quatre minutes magnifiques.

Upon the release of their sophomore record (which is fantastic), Vampire Weekend gave a performance for Vincent Moon's Les Soirées de poche series of one-take recordings, which is sort of a tangential direction of some of his other one-take films. I'm not shy about saying that I regard what Vincent is doing as brilliant, in an almost obvious, "why didn't anyone else think of this? " kind of way; and this further demonstrates his beyond-secure position as a beacon, a stalwart, and a watermark of fantastic taste in the independent music world. As music videos themselves witness their slow demise into obscurity, Vincent Moon is stealing their last breaths and giving us something more, something infinitely improved, and something that digs at that moist spot of our hearts where we love to be dug. This is one of those Parisian loft concerts that makes you (or me, at least) want move to Europe immediately. So very amazing. Viewing this should a requirement for breathing.



Please, please, please visit and support Vincent Moon's projects. They're so fucking necessary in our world, which seems to do everything in its power to enforce a sterile, joyless, connectionless existence on us.
La Blogotheque
Les Concerts À Emporter
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Les Soirées de Poche

Subtle Dream Pop

Baltimore's whimsical duo Beach House recently came out with their third record, Teen Dream. To my ears, it's their best, lushest, and dreamiest stuff to date, which is exhaustively impressing considering the merits of their previous releases.