I’m pretty sure the first record I ever bought was “S.O.S.” on 45, with “Mamma Mia” (which I didn’t rate at all) on the B-side.
Abba were the epitome of my adolescent taste for driving melody and sentiment (“If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago was on that team too). I bought “Fernando,” but when “Dancing Queen” came out I felt betrayed. What a bunch of sell-outs. 15 years later as a late-20s adult on the cutting edge of what was cool (Cranes, Pixies, Curve, My Bloody Valentine and such), I moved to San Francisco. For a man if I’m honest. My flatmate in my place on Duboce and Valencia was a cool cat named Monte who I bonded with right away, and I asked him what kind of music he was into. “The Carpenters and Abba.” I found this confusing and disappointing, but he soon changed my mind and I started collecting the Abba discography a dollar at a time at Community Thrift, marrying my adolescent fandom to camp recontextualization fascination.
Voyage was fucking hardcore — it contained exactly zero point zero percent acknowledgement of anything that happened in music in the last 40 years. Maybe Agnetha and Ani-Fried’s accents have gotten a bit thicker. It was, as ever, Germanic-romantic, naïve and optimistic; it got sad but it got over it. Unusually for musicians, Abba have always been winners. Voyage was insanely crafted, each song undeniable hooky pop perfection. Getting another dose of something so iconic was amazing and surreal — I can’t think of another band who have done anything like it.
I’ve gotten in the habit of having multiple birthday thingies, and — don’t hate — but with COVID numbers low I ended up having five of ‘em. My producer friend had read my “Bubbles” screenplay and had told me, somewhat sternly, that we needed to get together because she had notes for me. Then suddenly she was on board to produce it with two colleagues in tow, and it ended up that the day when everyone was available to meet was on my actual birthday. I’ve been trying to shoot a feature for over 20 years, and it was like the best birthday gift ever.
The finger-picked guitar and pedal steel of House of Confusion by Trace Mountains was a warm sweater in melancholy colors for the changing season. There’s no filler on this album, just great songs. I think I detect notes of Big Star in there. I was so fucking stressed out in November and I would play Trace Mountains for comfort. Where has this band been? They’re so me. They should challenge Hovvdy to a gentle and loving mud fight; they would probably let each
other win.
The follow-up to our first production meeting for “Bubbles” got delayed, and eventually I ended up meeting my producer friend at a café that had, unforgivably, run out of pistachio milk for iced macha lattes. It was a bad sign — when we sat down she let me know that, much as she wanted to support me, she was getting crazy busy with other projects and that satire just wasn’t her thing. I went home to play some Trace Mountains and lick my wounds.