Mercury and Venus both finished their tiresome retrogrades, so early in the month, before a new wave of death and destruction was unleashed, it was finally OK to get back to ordering cute things from Amazon, and to go on dates. And there were dates… a few of them actually.
I’ve been fixing up my place for the last couple of years, spending a few bucks and slowly transforming the old 20th Century thrift store retro shabby anti-everything look into discerning design homo minimal mid-Century sophistication. Trying, anyway. It was my friend Sarah’s birthday and I thought we could invite some fashionable homosexuals to join us for an exquisite evening of champagne, tart conversation and small plates and show off my taste and interior design acumen. As it happened, the sewer line to my building was being repaired that morning and the water had to be turned off. Mid-morning the plumbers pulled a rather short length of thick metal cable, with a dramatically frayed end, from the dark and fetid tunnel. A critical piece of equipment was kaput and suddenly there was no ETA on when the job might wrap up.
The toilet by that point had been let’s say used to its full potential. I soldiered on in the kitchen with the pitcher of fresh water I’d saved that morning, making roasted organic farmers market vegetables, guacamole and such, and laying out a table on the patio as I anticipated the surreal, nightmarish prospect of receiving my dainty guests with a pot full of poop in the next room. The contractors looked increasingly worried and exhausted. Sarah arrived later than expected and I took my stress out on her, despite the fact that it was her birthday.
“You said you’d be here at 7!!”
“I said 7:30…”
“No you said 7!!!”
I put on a playlist that we had co-authored, with Sarah mainstays like “Goodbye Horses” by Q-Lazzarus, “Sex Dwarf” by Soft Cell, and “Shake the Disease” by Depeche Mode, as well as shared favorites like “Babe We’re Gonna Love Tonight” by Lime and “Living a Boy’s Adventure Tale” by A-ha, and, um, I guess this story doesn’t have much of a punchline. I survived the ultimate urban gay nightmare. In the end food was consumed, drinks were drunk, we stayed outside, nobody peed, but fun was had somehow.
I’ve noticed through the years that most bands and musicians hit their peak in their early to mid 20s. I think it has to do with the fact that the most vibrant and engaged audience for new music, the people who are looking for new stuff and going to small-venue concerts and such, are around that age, so bands draw on the energy of a public that wants adventures of discovery and to be surprised and delighted by new forms of expression.
Delightful then to come across the occasional artist who catches fire beyond that age. Lee “Scratch” Perry was a ridiculous exception, doing wild work into his 80s. Juana Molina is another one that comes to mind, cool as fuck in her 50s. Can’t think of anyone else at the moment. My charming writers group fellows tried to make a case for Nick Cave but honestly I haven’t been a fan since the Birthday Party. #whatasnob. Anyway my point is that February brought into my consciousness the winsomely middle-aged Ed Dowie and his “The Obvious I” album, in which he elaborates Erasure-worthy pop melodies into little pop operas, like Vince Clark producing the Beach Boys. His lyrics remind me of Stuart Murdoch or Owen Pallett in their arched-eyebrow sense of loss and regret. “Don’t take any of my advice / Especially when it comes to you with a smile / I renounce the light and try / To pretend I know what happens at night.”
When a friend put on “Don Quichotte” it was a magical experience of an all-time favorite song of my subconscious that had never fully penetrated my frontal lobe. You’ve probably heard it — it’s got an 80s Chuck E. Cheese party keyboard riff and Spanish language italo-disco-adjacent lyrics of crystalline silliness. Don Quichotte and Sancho Panza “keep on fighting,” apparently, as a receptionist turns away phone calls from an increasingly perturbed English speaker. “What’s going on? You’ve got a hole in your brain. I feel crazy!” Turns out it’s by French band Magazine 60, it came out in ‘86, and you just can’t not dance to it.
I like to think my taste is way beyond algorithms, and Spotify does throw a lot of stuff at me that’s just…
Like, did Joe Rogan pick this out for me? But then they’ll send me little clusters of goodness, such as russian.girls, an Icelandic band with not much online presence, and their ridiculously cool “Hundrad í haettuni”, a clubby, late night number with a small children locked in a closet vibe. It’s got just enough melody to hook you in and it keeps you on board with Gus Gus-worthy nordic funkiness and delightful little coos.
I just had to dive a little deeper and wowowow, they have a hit from a few years ago called “Autopilot” that I would wear a collar for — “I just wanna live or die, I really don’t mind / whether you love me forever / or toss me by the seaside / I just wanna laugh or cry, I really don’t mind / whether you make a good joke / or tell me the saddest story of your life.”
Those FYF Fests from the early ‘10s at the Historic Park were the funnest and most magical music festivals I’ve been to, but of course I managed to bring boyfriend drama through the gates. I remember just one chapter in a day-long and year-long saga of frustration was how my reluctant boo was so eager to see Beach House… Smitten me was willing to stand there bored out of my mind, thinking how bougie and inoffensive they were. I still can’t say I love them as a band, maybe because they’re so wine bar / NPR friendly — I mean that band name alone — and honestly I’m surprised I gave them a second chance, but from time to time they do put me in a swoon, and “Sunset” off their new album is such a simple and perfect distillation of sweetness and joy. Irresistable, and believe me I tried.
Vitalic, on the other hand, won me over completely back in ‘05 with his OK Cowboy album and its robotic lysergic beating human heart techno, and he’s hit the top of my personal hit parade a few times since then (“Your Disco Song,” “Waiting for the Stars”). I threw his new one “The Light Is a Train” on a playlist for a drive down to Mexico with my bestie Michael, who’s not a music-head, and it was the only thing he responded to. “This takes me way back! To prowling around dark sex clubs, high on substances!” And yeah it definitely has dark and deliciously diseased textures — it places itself on your tongue in tab form and purrs and squelches and thumps in shifting, organic sonic slabs. By the way, we parked and walked across the border and took a taxi — no hours of waiting to get back in the U.S.! — and got some excellent dental work and prescription drugs.
As the month drew to a close, a new release from Keeley Forsyth rained down from the dark heavens, a salty caramel of hopeful longing alloyed with forlornment. Keeley’s voice is a deep, quivering treasure, she sounds like Nico transforming into a large bird, and much like la Päffgen her arrangements are dissonant, textured and slow as molasses.
Love the writing Paul!!