SXSW 2010 Day Three

March 19, 2010 Friday

It has been a couple of days of beautiful weather, seventy degrees and sunny. My slightly sunburned face and throbbing feet are urging me to adopt a slightly less grueling pace than roughly fifteen bands we saw yesterday. I tend to agree with myself. Especially when I’m hungry. Which begins our day at Club Deville on Red River St. for the Brooklyn Vegan/ Magic Hat party and their delicious offerings of vegan breakfast tacos and Hail Mary Granola. Although the lineup included Princeton, Twin Sister, Nicole Atkins & Lucero, we were running short on time to make it down the street to Emo’s to catch a set from the Local Natives, an LA band making some waves. Emo’s was easy to find because of the line out the door and down the street waiting to get in. Through a bit of scouting and reconnaissance, we discovered an alternate and slightly hidden rear entrance to their outdoor patio area, packed with the buzz of a large audience in search of buzz. The band had really tight live harmonies, a fantastic Gretch, mandolin, bass, drums, and an auxillary drummer/programmer, all of which added up to their propulsive rhythms and textured melodies. This was their fourth of nine shows at SXSW, making the most of their time there in support of their debut Gorilla Manor. Despite their Ultra LA hipster high and tight pants with 70’s mustaches, their sound was very appealing, leaning to the rock side of indie, especially the last two songs Airplane and Sun Hands, making the Bands To Check Out Post SXSW list.

We took a long walk down Congress to the WOXY studios and for a tour with Mike & Joe. This is a station that was once based in Cincinnati, uprooted from its terrestrial roots in 2004 to lead the internet in radio and moved physically to Austin in 2009. The building was at one time an old theater, converted to a tv studio, from which live bands have been in and out all week. We were there during the recording of a set by the Besnard Lakes, a band from Montreal and the same one that was ending their big set at Stubb’s last night when we stopped by. They had a great rock sound, but odd in terms of ethereal textures, sounding like an unfrozen haunting in the ionosphere, ending with the songs Albatross and Progress. Our tour of the facilities continued up to the roof, revealing an amazing panorama of the city. Regrettably, after spending so much time and money setting up the new station, a few days after our visit all of their funding was pulled and the team that had just relocated across the country is currently left high and dry. We wish them well and hope they fall into new jobs quickly.

Heading north toward the Capitol on Congress, we made our way to the Paste Vanguard party, catching the very end of the Watson Twins and deciding that it was time for Guero’s, that famed restaurant of idyllic stature that is required on any trips I take to Austin. It’s that refreshing Avalon, the reward of Elysium, the assortment of salsas and margaritas that make a man seriously contemplate living in Texas. It’s in a quaint area full of boutiques and boots, giving you visions of lazy Saturdays and strolls by the mighty Colorado River.

We decided to make one main event our final stop for the evening, the Dickies Sounds Party held at the Lustre Pearl. This was another outdoor stage, and the line to get in here was pandemonium. It had a fantastic line up as the evening wore on, including Here We Go Magic, She & Him, Broken Bells and Surfer Blood. It had some issues as well, enough to put a damper on the evening. First up was Here We Go Magic, and there’s not a way to delicately say this, but they did not sound good. The good news is that might have actually been the sound, as either the engineer or the underpowered system itself was severely lacking. It was as if someone two doors down from you was having a house party or band practice. We had high hopes that it was a fluke, or the band, and that it would get better as the night went on. Up next was She & Him, mainly the project of Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward, bringing a large 60’s southwestern surf style that would fit in any Tarantino film. It actually might be more apropos if the project were named Cult of Zooey, as any observer of their audiences can attest. Her voice has a breathy angeic quality and the crowd is in love. There’s lots of bouncy tambourine, even some country and western in there too. M. Ward capably handles guitar and some vocals and is accompanied by two female backup singers, drums and bass. Their sound wasn’t great either, and writing it off on the soundman, we decided that was not the way we’d like to see Broken Bells or Surfer Blood. We decided that they would have to be our priority tomorrow, as we made our way back down Red River, mingling with the crowd exiting Stubb’s, whose main event of the evening was Courtney Love’s reignition of Hole and Muse. It looked as though a good time was had by all. I bet the sound was stellar.

Brian S. Meurer

SXSW 2010 Day Two

March 18, 2010 Thursday

Garbage removal. It’s the first thing that I notice as we arrive 10-ish in the morning. Last night, with the St. Pat’s day revelry and all, this place was trashed. Literally. Very close to the condition of the Paddock at Churchill Downs circa 7:30 pm Derby night. Amazingly, the streets are utterly devoid of the cans, wrappers, bottles, bags, paper plates and flyers from the previous day. Much respect for Austin for making that happen.

First on the Agenda is picking up our credentials at the Convention Center, the nucleus of Official South by Southwest, with it’s myriad workers and volunteers and signs and lines and sign-in booths for press, radio, labels and performers, most of whom have that overwhelmed and lost look in their eyes. It’s a good thing that there is an artist’s lounge on the fourth floor stocked with snacks, beverages, internet and chair massages. The Convention Center houses the music panels, discussions, mentoring sessions, trade show and performance spaces. This year, SXSW now touts 1900 bands on over 80 official stages throughout the city.

The way all of these stages work is this: a club/bar/restaurant allows a business (NPR, Billboard, Labels, Magazines, etc.) to essentially take over for the morning or evening, allowing as many bands as they choose to play short sets. This, as you can imagine, is a logistical nightmare for most people involved. There is often a backline provided (a drum set, a bass amp, a guitar amp) in order to facilitate set changeovers, but even so the streets are constantly buzzing with musicians franticly rolling amps and carrying cumbersome instrument cases, loading them into illegally parked vans while navigating the influx of scheduled performers. This happens about every 45 minutes all day long at every venue across town.

Credentials in hand, we walked to the 700 block of west 6^th to see our good friend Sean Cannon at the Buzzgrinder Buddyhead room, packed with a full two day list of bands like Wax Fang, Apteka, These United States, Henry Clay People, Vandaveer and the Seedy Seeds, a hand selected list reflecting Buzzgrinder’s personal favorites in a cavernous room with competent sound. Our compliments to Mr. Cannon for successfully managing his first foray into partydom. Another key to an efficient SXSW trip is the ability to find the best places for free food and drinks. Arriving at the Speakeasy on S. Congress for the Vevo/Fontana party, a small buffet of southwestern themed foods and drinks allowed us to make it through an underwhelming Sass Jordan set. We caught a few tunes from Rey Fresco, providing island rock grooves and meshing a rhythmic Latin sound triangulated between Marley, Maxwell & Legend. The name means “king fresh” in Spanish, and with a passionate singer from Fiji, a drummer who builds his own drums, an incredible harp player, and a big bass player with a pencil-thin mustache to accompany his fedora, they definitely have a California feel. Their album came out in December & had a Song of the Day on NPR, and made the short list of Bands To Check Out Post SXSW.

We headed to the Galaxy Room for the Paste day party and caught the last few songs from Fanfarlo, a London based indie pop band, playing for a packed house of enthralled fans. The band multitasked trumpet, violin, mandolin, bass, drums, xylophone, keys, clarinet, and melodica. They had a great sound, reminiscent of Crowded House and the Talking Heads. After their set, we stepped out back to the outside stage under a tent and was treated to a set with Gordon Gano, singer of Violent Femmes fame. Despite having one of the most distinctive voice in alternative rock, his set began with little fanfare, the crowd meandering about, apparently not quite sure who this was. Except for those in the front, who were well aware and questioning the mental capacity of the sparse crowd behind them. With what could be described as a gravelly Midwest tenor, Mr. Gano worked his way through songs from his September 2009 release “Under the Sun”. Multinstrumentation seems to be the order of the year, with guitars, violin, accordion, mandolin, saxophone, bass and drums. By the time that the set was winding down into American Music and Blister In The Sun, the crowd had made the connection and packed in all available space.

The lull between day parties and night parties is usually the opportune time to grab dinner, and immediately afterward made our way to the Cedar Street Courtyard. Over a sunken patio area located between two buildings that contained a stage and a few hundred people, we perched on the balcony directly overlooking stage, giving us a nice vantage for the upcoming Miike Snow show. In the meantime, we had the Paris based Uffie, a synthpop disco rapper attempting to placate the crowd, who really couldn’t quite get into her. Described by one fan as a “crackhead caricature of herself”, she and her DJ were obviously hoping for a crowd more familiar with her work, or at least more sympathetic. When at last it was time for Miike Snow, 6 guys in black t-bird jackets took the stage. They are more like a production supergroup; electronic cyborgs whose instrument is whatever is lying within arms reach, generating a sublime stream of electro pop that also made the Bands To Check Out Post SXSW list.

We met up with a couple of friends at the New West Party as things were wrapping up with Kris Kristopherson, Buddy Miller and Patty Griffin. Deciding not to wait for the Harper Simon show in order to catch the Ben Sollee Daniel Martin Moore performance, we trekked down 6^th and made our way to an old church building, the Central Presbyterian Church at 200 E. 8^th. It seemed the perfect setting for such a reverent, commanding performance in support of their album Dear Companion, which we reviewed earlier. Accompanying Mr. Sollee on cello and Mr. Moore on guitar was Cheyenne Mize, an amazing female violin/electric guitar/vocalist and an incredibly tight drummer, Dan Dorff, who pulled out his old Stomp skills on an amazing rendition of Bury Me With My Car. Surprisingly, expanded songs from Dear Companion were enhanced in this setting and were everything and more that the album could suggest. Afterward we headed to the immortal Stubb’s and caught the absolute end of Besnard Lakes set, spontaneously deciding to treck across town and press our luck trying to get into the much-hyped Stone Temple Pilots reunion. Feeling nostalgic for the 90’s, it was great to see that they still had it, the jerky strut of Mr. Weiland still able to capture the attention of a crowd. The songs sounded great, the band in good form, but the crowd was a bit too fist-pumpy-glory-days for my tastes. The final stop for the night took us back down 5^th to Antone’s to see the Courtyard Hounds, the side project led by two of the Dixie Chicks who aren’t named Natalie Maines. In the same vein as Taking The Long Way, sweetly delivered vocals, acoustic driven guitars and fiddles and tight harmonies define their alt-country sound. The songs were really enjoyable, with even Jakob Dylan joining them for a couple.

As the day wrapped, I regretted not purchasing a pedometer. I would very much like to know how many miles we traversed throughout the day. My shoes immediately shouted "One Hundred!" as we slowly lurched like Boris Karloff in the Mummy, dragging one foot behind us on our way to sweet sleep.

Brian S. Meurer

SXSW 2010 Day One

SXSW 03.17.10

The South by Southwest Music Festival began in 1987 and is held every year in Austin TX, bringing together over 1,400 bands from all corners of the world, landing in every location anywhere close to downtown that has an occupiable space for a band to set up and an electrical outlet. Swirling around the core of South by Southwest is Ernest Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises, set to the 1974 album The Heart of Saturday Night by Tom Waits. Crowds conglomerate into mobs that form and disperse at the drop of a hat, if that idiom is still relevant. It’s an event that is powered by word of mouth and instantly public announcements through Twitter, which exploded here in 2007. It is geared toward those with a deficit of attention, with most bands limiting their sets to thirty minutes and only playing what they feel is their best material. Consequently there is a constant popping in and out of clubs and bars and tents. I overheard a guy on the street say that SXSW is like doing shots of bands. I understood his meaning, but felt it was more analogous to a wine tasting, finding unexpected discoveries and holding on with all your might.

There are one thousand thirty three miles from Louisville to Austin, and that takes roughly sixteen hours to drive. If you pick the right companions, it has the potential to be a journey full of music, comedy and conversation. And quite honestly, with that many hours in a vehicle, you had just better pick the right companions; the kind that will appreciate the serendipity of a well-shuffled ipod announcing the Days of Miracle and Wonder And Don’t Cry Baby Don’t Cry as you shoot through Memphis, and the gentle rebuke That’s Right, You’re Not From Texas as you curse the frontage roads of Texas. We left at 6:30 Eastern time, eight hours to Little Rock, five hours to Dallas, three final and excruciating hours south to arrive finally in Austin, TX at 10:30 pm Central time.

A brief hotel check-in, downtown Austin welcomes your decompression. As the capitol of Texas, Austin is laid out on a much appreciated grid, and for our purposes, the two perpendicular streets that hold our attention for the next few days are 6^th St. and Congress Ave. Housing a dense population of bars, clubs and restaurants, 6^th St. is ideal for the perusal of live music. As we began our recon of the area, we quickly realized that it was Wednesday, March 17, also known far and wide as St. Patrick’s Day. Also known far and wide as Underage Amateur Night, youthful experimenters with adult beverages ruled the scene. While there were a number of bands performing, the main events and destination bands would begin the following day. After a quick lap through 6^th and popping in a small number of venues, it was time to call it a night and get rest for the exhaustathon that was to be the next few days. And make a note for the future to avoid downtown St. Patrick’s Day festivities.

Brian S. Meurer

Then you comb your hair, shave your face

Tryin’ to wipe out every trace of all the other days

In the week you know that this’ll be the Saturday

You’re reaching your peak

Stoppin’ on the red, you’re goin’ on the green

‘Cause tonight’ll be like nothin’ you’ve ever seen

And you’re barrelin’ down the boulevard

You’re lookin’ for the heart of Saturday night

- Tom Waits

Freelance Whales

Freelance Whales

Weathervanes

2010

With their beautiful and rousing debut Weathervanes, the Freelance Whales snatch a victorious Spring from the icy clutches of Winter, with fascinating oscillations of meter and melody delivered on big fluffy womb-like clouds of melancholy optimism. Through sweetly delivered vocals fluttering over choice instrumentation I can already see the lime floating in the gin soaked summer nights. And it’s a good thing, because with a band name like the Freelance Whales, the music had better be exceptional.

The album is incredibly appealing, with its pleasant dream-like feel enhanced by the billowy grit of a melodica and microkorg drone under tasteful banjo parts and layered with floatingly hummable melodies. The vocals have an earnest delicacy whose playfulness is only enhanced when the lyrical pace increases, showcased in the near perfection of the second song, “Hannah”. Its gratifying arrangement of driving rhythm and fast paced vocal delivery hits all the right spots, dropping to half time and a syncopated beat, allowing the chorus to release the longing and emotion pent up from the verse. Add the fun layer of extraneous jangly bells and swirls and you’ve got comfort food for summer.

But it’s when the fifth song starts that you realize that you’ve already been hooked; they had marked you in the store before you even knew you were listening and tapping and humming. That song is “Starring”, and that title word moves far past merely memorable into the earworm territory of Wrath of Kahn, only voluntary and pleasurable. The first wash of the microkorg grabs you on a primal level, communicating directly with your autonomic nervous system, commanding it to release endorphins. As soon as the trippy break beat starts, you realize that this album just broke through, just went from good to great. And plus, any album that references kilojoules gets extra points in my book.

The second half of the album settles into a continuation of variations on the theme, including the evocative “Broken Horse” and the fantastic closer “The Great Estates”. Amidst the breathy whispers of repeating vowels and melodic hooks reminiscent of the Police, if Sting had never left the hammock, you’ll find an album that flows easily and fluidly as a trapeze artist, wrapped in a wooly blanket of dreamy glockenspiels, taking a warm bath in electrofuzz melodica. This is the stuff that outdoor evenings in the summer are made for. And considering they have at least nine (9!) shows in Austin this week around South by Southwest, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to catch multiple sets, and I for one hope that their live show can live up to this album.

Brian S. Meurer

Peter Gabriel: Scratch My Back

Peter Gabriel

Scratch My Back

2010

If I could buy the world a Coke, I’d take the money that I would use to buy the world a Coke and distribute as many copies possible of the new Peter Gabriel album, Scratch My Back, far and wide throughout the land. It is a spellbinding reimagining of eclectic songs spanning the past three decades and is achingly beautiful, emotionally raw and intense. It’s an album that works on many levels, ranging from the deceptively complex and elegant orchestral production to the both powerful and delicate qualities of Mr. Gabriel’s 60 year old voice.

Since 2010 is reliving the mid-eighties right now, it makes sense that the video king of 1987 would be the next in a long line of mass-homage, from Johnny Cash to Springsteen and Paul Simon. His innovative forty plus year career is studded with hits, controversy, landmarks and millions of sales. It is, however, precisely his diminished position in current popular consciousness that allows the leap directly to kinetic energy for the composer of Here Comes The Flood and Mercy Street.

Scratch My Back is a sterling choice of songs and feels like each has an intensely personal connection with Mr. Gabriel. It’s an album without guitars or drums, filtering songs that rely on these into strings and horns. There is a tension that runs through the disc that conjures the artist’s frustrating attempt to express the inexpressible. The songs are evocative, moving and dynamic, completely deconstructed from their original form and suspended in the bouquet of an orchestral chianti. The vocal delivery is emotive and passionate, both gritty and fragile, belting and subdued. The entire album hinges on the thematic and relevant, the meaningful and the unutterable. This is expressive music as high art. And it’s only half the story.

The interesting, nay, genius aspect of this idea will come later this year, when the artists tagged here pick up the gauntlet and choose their own Peter Gabriel song to cover. My mind spins considering who will do what song? Pick a slower piano driven one like Washing Of The Water and bring the guitars and drums? Will anyone be bold enough to touch the Passion album?

Even though the entire album feels like the jubilant slow motion finale of a triumphant marathon, it is sure to have its share of detractors. Some will find it dreary, the orchestral arrangements overwrought, melodramatic, unoriginal; essentially unable to breach short attention spans. There are some people who are unable to find beauty in sadness, or who believe that joy and minor keys are mutually exclusive. Lamentations about the absence of guitars, drums and originally penned source material miss the point. This is not an album of the three minute pop song, compressed and auto-tuned to false perfection, as illustrated by recent Grammy performers. This is an album about stripping away flesh and bone to distill the essence of a song’s spirit, absorbing, inhabiting and internalizing that essence to express something meaningful to the artist. It’s about the moment, and it’s Peter Gabriel’s moment, and it’s about time.

Brian S. Meurer

Yeasayer: Odd Blood

Yeasayer

Odd Blood

2010

Allow me to go on record officially and dub 2010 the new 1985, and Yeasayer has thrown their chips all in. In a stylistically varied album, they cover a lot of bases and carry a lot of baggage that they must overcome. It is this audacious ambition that somehow fuses the confidence of Prince in Purple Rain, the excitement of the Pointer Sisters in Beverly Hills Cop, and the whimsy of the theme to Fletch.

The sonic landscape of Odd Blood is rife with the synth swirls, keyboard stabs and the percussive gated reverb of a bygone era. It shares a feel with Brooklynite neighbors Vampire Weekend and MGMT, but shows itself to be at the more commercially accessible end of the block. If John Hughes, God rest his soul, were alive today and continuing his cathartic cinematic teen drama in the vein of The Breakfast Club and Pretty In Pink, Yeasayer could fully expect a tap on the shoulder to contribute, if not dominate, the soundtrack.

After the otherworldly opener “The Children”, with its experimentally off-putting digital chainsaw vocal effects, the album settles into an eclectic spectrum with synthpop at its center, betraying just the slightest hint of industrial (please don’t tell Trent Reznor). It’s an album that infuses the essence of mid-eighties gems like Billy Idol’s 1984 archetype “Eyes Without A Face”, the one two punch of Duran Duran in 1984-85 with “Hungry Like The Wolf” and “View To A Kill”, and in a hypothetically fantastic scenario, if Depeche Mode had composed the music for Miami Vice Season Two.

But the album is deceptive like a Trojan Horse. It has a lot to get past, and the listener’s ability to do so may depend on the context and time period in which you grew up. The first listen didn’t click with me; the second gave me pause. Somewhere by mid-album, around the song “Love Me Girl”, almost imperceptively, your shoulders will start to move, maybe one is the snare, the other the kick drum, and you start to think about a time when Tears For Fears, Pet Shop Boys and Simple Minds ruled the airwaves.

“Ambling Lip” is the first single off the album, and it’s a marching pulse of effects-laden island sway. A lot of the album is full of effects that sound as though they were dehydrated into powder, placed in the bottom of a boiling cauldron and set over a witch’s fire to meld and bubble to the surface in strange, unidentifiable forms. “I Remember” includes a cascading waterfall of notes that in previous years may have signaled that you just saved the princess with the clever use of your raccoon suit in SMB3. In other places it’s the synthetic growl of a moog or the squeal of a motion-detector ghost that people hang around Halloween.

Odd Blood is a collection of varied, but mostly upbeat, melodic synthpop songs. It’s this lighthearted sense of post-ironic playfulness that pulls the album through the weighted baggage of its material. It just happens to draw heavily from the year MCMLXXXV, and you can bet what this year’s trendy tattoo will be.

Brian S. Meurer

2009 Year In Music

Two Thousand and Nine turned out to be a pretty good year in music. At this point, I need to clarify that what I really wanted to do was to let you know what I listened to most in '09 and what meant the most to me.

In my most humble persona opinion, the three best releases of 2009 were Phoenix -Wolfgang Amadeus Phoneix, Elbow -The Seldom Seen Kid (actually 08), and Neko Case -Middle Cyclone. If you lack any of these three and my recommendation means anything to you, get them now. Right behind those three were releases by Gomez, David Byrne/Brian Eno, and Bryan Scary that I enjoyed immensely. While I don't have the time to go back and do in-depth reviews as I have recently here, here, and here, I wanted to at least post music that mattered to me in '09.

Enjoy,

b

Phoenix -Wolfgang Amadeus Phoneix
Elbow -The Seldom Seen Kid
Neko Case -Middle Cyclone
The Decemberists -The Hazards Of Love
Gomez -A New Tide
David Byrne/Brian Eno -Everything That Happens Will Happen Today

Bryan Scary -Mad Valentines

Muse -The Resistance
Handsome Firs -Face Control
Wilco -Wilco
David Gray -Draw The Line
U2 -No Line On The Horizon
Pearl Jam -Backspacer
Sting -If On A Winter's Night
The Hold Steady -A Positive Rage (Live Album)

*not released in '09, but I listened to a lot:

Velvet Underground & Nico 1967
Thom Yorke 2006 The Eraser

Grey's Anatomy is Decadent and Depraved

Sometimes I wonder what Hunter S. Thompson would say about Grey's Anatomy.

I'm pretty sure after slightly lowering his smoldering, long cigarette holder and glowering an expressionless stare, he'd flip through the nearest Merriam-Webster's and manage to utter the following:

pompous

self-important

conceited

vain, empty

ignorantly arrogant

pretentious

He would then snap the volume shut with one hand, letting it fall at 9.8m/s, striking the floor with a startling sound, pausing motionless until he slowly picks up his Wild Turkey on the rocks with his non-smoking hand. "I don't know who writes dialogue like that, but, I've consumed and imbibed and absorbed a lifetime of most every substance known to man, and I've never encountered anything as mind numbing as that show."

Lost

Final Season
Episodes One & Two

Locke is a really good bad guy.
Juliette dying more than once is the reason they changed the rules for ice skating in the 88 olympics.
Sawyer is being an irrational punk.

I'm a sucker for southeast asian temples.
Geddy Lee is now translating for the head guy at that temple.
When he turned over that hourglass, I expected to see some flying monkeys.
Locke is a really, really good bad guy

Spoon

for The Weekly Feed

Spoon
Transference
2010

In the search for insight into the nature of reality and truth, there is a traditional zen koan, a paradoxical question posed from Master to Student, that I have pondered for some time now: “What Is The Sound of Spoon Recording?”

When I imagine Spoon in the studio, I picture Andy Warhol’s working and creative area, The Factory; a spacious warehouse that encompassed a renaissance idea of art, whose maxim, in more ways than two, was anything goes. Any idea could be pursued, as the Factory was stocked with supplies to support any whim: painting, sculpting, music, performance, recording, film, etc. I then imagine the Factory populated with the late, great Jim Henson’s Muppets: Gonzo on bass, Animal obviously on drums, Beaker meticulously adjusting every guitar knob and pedal, Dr. Teeth himself on vocals, produced by a veritable mixologist behind the control board, the Swedish Chef. And thusly Spoon’s Transference arrives into the world.

Transference plots the increasing creativity and complexity of Spoon through their unique view of rhythm-as-Rube-Goldberg contraption, whereby the boot kicks over the bucket that drops a ball on the lever that launches the distorted fuzz bass melody that pushes the floor tom to the third beat, which holds the disjointed guitar keeping time on the offbeat. Like these glorious machines, you are mesmerized concentrating on these workings and their effects. Instead of making this album inaccessible, it becomes filled with grooves, at times thick, nasty, trance-inducing grooves. Snake charmer grooves. If there were a subdued hipster rave at a cool coffee shop, this album would be the house music.

Transference really begins to hit its stride by the third song, The Mystery Zone, imbued with a hypnotic mathematical bass drone that time warps you out of any present context, only realized when you snap out of it as the song finishes, you yawning and rubbing your eyes. This is mainly due to Spoon’s affinity for designating an instrument, melody or rhythm as the constant, that one aspect of a song that is going to be the static premise around which everything else revolves, like a game of Frozen Catchers when you were a kid, always determining who would be “it”.

This theme continues through Who Makes Your Money and into the very essence of a Spoonian single, Written In Reverse. This is a solid set of eleven songs that defy the trap of self-indulgence that plague bands who attempt to shun an outside producer, and it’s encouraging to see Spoon succeed in this regard. In addition to it being their first self-produced album, Transference is Spoon’s seventh album, and has a remarkable depth of creativity for that level of longevity. There is also a variety to the album that keeps it fresh, including that adventure in lo-fi exuberance Trouble Comes Running, as well as the 300 level course in dynamic build of I Saw The Light.

Transference is the sound of a band having fun, with its Rube Goldberg machine of bass, drums, piano and guitars falling into odd places that kick the rhythm in the back of its head, projecting both it, and Spoon, forward.



Brian S. Meurer

Ben Sollee & Daniel Martin Moore

for The Weekly Feed

Ben Sollee & Daniel Martin Moore
Dear Companion
2010

I wrote one word and jabbed a period. I stared at it for three seconds. Underlined it. The review was complete.

Stirring.

This is one of those refreshing albums that renew your faith in humanity, that give you an exaggerated sense of love for others, that wrap your soul in a snuggie© and wet kiss a golden retriever by a fireplace. How exactly can something as intangible as music do these things? If there were an answer to that, you can bet that Clear Channel and the Major Labels would have it in a tattooed formula for all their artists to follow. And judging by the state of mainstream radio, that just hasn’t happened.

Dear Companion, the collaboration of Ben Solle & Daniel Martin Moore, including Jim James on production, illustrates what can be accomplished when proficient songsmiths embrace an efficiency of space and allow music to breathe, while providing a palpable tension from its contrasts. It’s the cello quarter notes vs. the sixteenths on the hi-hat; the spirited and agile banjo vs. the half-time drag of the drums; the most beautiful vocal parts that turn out to be the inseparable amalgamation of two voices.

This is an album that continues in the rich heritage of Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M. and Summerteeth, an album that demands you immediately take a road trip through the Great American Southwest in a dusty convertible, Thelma & Louise style, your destination a covered back porch in Knoxville overlooking a forested ravine with a steaming cup of coffee to counter the nip in the air.

Something, Somewhere, Sometime is the opening track that sets the tone for the album, showcasing that intensity of contrasts, the building anticipation that ends the same way as most songs here: too soon. From here, the album settles into its lower-key theme of savory songwriter goodness. Sollee and the warm intonations of his cello are in fantastic form here, especially on Only A Song and Try, from which you know after the first six notes that it will be one of your favorites on the album. You’re also sure to hear the title track Dear Companion quite a bit, hopefully as a future single, as it’s one of the standouts.

These Kentucky artists come together with a common passion and mission of raising awareness of Mountaintop Removal coal mining. According to Sub-Pop, a portion of their proceeds will benefit the organization Appalachian Voices. The album does manage to avoid any heavy-handedness, relying on the artist’s responsibility to raise thought provoking questions, and in the end succeeds in creating as beautiful a landscape as the one they’re trying to preserve. As Mr. Sollee sings, “It’s only a song, it can’t change the world”. But I honestly can’t think of a better place to begin.

Brian S. Meurer

Vampire Weekend

for The Weekly Feed

Vampire Weekend
Contra
2010

Vampire Weekend is really taking it on the chin these days. It seems that their ability to divide people into virulent camps rivals left-leaning politics at one of those tea bagger parties. Maybe like those events, it wasn’t necessarily representative of the majority, but the critics were loud and obnoxious enough to make it seem so. I’m pretty sure that Vampire Weekend will be number one on Billboard this week with their new album Contra, so maybe they’re rightly unconcerned about a few hyper vocal critics.

Contra turns out to be a mélange of mid-eighties pop-centric Caribbean/African experiments, with nods in all directions, from Elvis Costello sans-attitude, to the Police’s Synchronicity, a bit of Zep’s Fool In The Rain, and the ubiquitous comparison to Graceland. The premise seems to have been: “What if a cocktail shaker could hold Mento, Latin, African, Calypso, Caribbean and American Indie Pop, and what if a calypso breakdown weren’t a breakdown, but an entire song?” It has all the bloops and bleeps a modern indie record with smart production requires, contributing to what in the end will be a very successful record, and rightfully so. It’s also a bit of a genre-bender, with its’ aforementioned ethnic tangents given a ska-dub-electro-pop twist. Contra succeeds if only because it reaches for something different than everyone else right now.

The album opens with Horchata, an upbeat island number driven by the backbone of a straight kick drum with the fluttering of vocal melodies and plunky keys that, like half of the album, make you long for your old Casio keyboard you had in the late eighties. That theme continues throughout, incorporating strong, anxious rhythms with frenetic melodies, often throwing in a swirl of wispy ethereal background vocal breaths. Standouts include the understated, groovy dub in the tasteful use of space of the palette cleansing Taxi Cab, as well as the gyrating Giving Up The Gun. Cousins is the first single, with Run sure to follow, both fitting in the context of the album as a whole. Occasional trouble arises in the squeaky upper register falsetto, essentially bits of White Sky and Run, but overall the melodies are strong and memorable enough to hold their own.

Controversy and critics aside, Contra is a solid album, especially given the fact that it was so highly anticipated and the pressure was on to deliver. And they seem to take more than a bit of joy at bringing that cocktail shaker to the middle of a Tea Party and serving any who care to join them.

Brian S. Meurer

Cooking Musician Interview

I was looking for my hummus prep notes and oddly enough, found an old, short interview online I did in 07, mainly about musicians and cooking. I thought it was worth preserving here, enjoy.
b


MusiCulinary Opening Weekend--Featuring THE MUCKRAKERS

MusiCulinary is happy to open a new season with an interview with Brian S. Meurer, bassist for Louisville Kentucky band The Muckrakers. He continues a proud MusiCulinary tradition of bass players having some of the best cooking stories, and provides his recipe for Hummus.

MusiCulinary: What is the one cooking skill you're most proud
of, and how/where did you learn it?

Brian: I'm probably most proud of my knife skills. It's such a great feeling when a well balanced knife quickly dispatches with everything on your cutting board. You've probably heard of people throwing babies in pools to make them learn to swim? That's basically the tactic I took. I'd like to say some well qualified sous chef trained me in the finer arts of using a knife. Actually, I will say that. You can believe that, yes sir. In no way did I almost remove a finger and while cleaning blood from the floor decide to cut cleanly, quickly, and efficiently. Absolutely in no way did I stand up, hold up my fist and say as God as my witness, I'll never go bloody again.

MusiCulinary: Tell us about any new type of cuisine or new recipe
you've recently tried out for the first time...and
tell us if you intend to try it again.

Brian: Recently I've been making a lot of a great hummus recipe a friend passed on to me, as well as, but less frequently, pommes frites, which are thicker and tastier than what we know of as fast-food french fries. The key to the hummus is the draining, rinsing and boiling of the garbanzo beans, as well as the fresh garlic and lemon. The absolute key to the frites is the ice bath immediately after cutting, as well as the two frying times. Although neither the hummus nor frites are a new type of cuisine, they both turn out fantastic, so I return to them often.

MusiCulinary: Describe your most memorable culinary disaster.

Brian: Aside from the bloody nearly-severed finger, the bane of my culinary existence is, sadly, rice. Yeah, rice. I know. But I wanted to do it right, no microwaving something in a box. The first time I made a curry chicken dish, I made a great basmati rice, and I thought that rice is easy, no problem. The second, third, and fourth time of making rice, it basically ruined the meal, each time. I kept trying, kept trying to turn out something edible, something in between mush and tiny oblong rocks. To no avail. You need something with rice? How about we use potatoes or pasta as a side dish instead?

MusiCulinary: Describe a typical dinner you would make for a
quiet evening at home.

Brian: Sauteed garlic chicken, peppercorns, green peppers, onions, olives. French bread. A dry cab-sav or chianti.

MusiCulinary: Complete the sentence: "My listeners would
probably be most surprised that I cook
this:__________________________."

Brian: All day long, all day strong
French Onion Soup

The Decemberists @ The Brown Theater 08.10.09

I love when music sidles up to you, like the slow moving, menacing Mummy in the old Boris Karloff black and whites, or the Creeper from Scooby Doo. It's just sitting there, in that stack of recommendations, and there's so much to do around the house, so hey, two birds. It was in this manner that I absorbed The Hazards of Love by the Decemberists. While not familiar with the band or the album, I was able to put together from numerous background listens that it was aiming for some kind of past-century operatic narrative. In this initial background phase, I was surprised at how many times it surprised me- there was a pace to it; the songs flowed into one another and back again; the abrupt changes were abrupt in the right way at the right time; was that a reprise? The melodies were interesting, the harmonies beautiful, and over repeated listens, those hooks became anchors. And then I got to the lyrics.

By this time I was singing notes and phrases and humming along with the rich melodies and harmonies, until one day during the Rake Song I had to pause. I'm locked in the repeating refrain "Alright, Alright, Alright" when a few of the murky lyrical pieces fall together in my mind and I grasp the dark, dark content. This was the lead single for the album, and apparently generated its share of complaints to radio stations (who subsequently went to bat for the song in its context in the album). As I listened more intently to the lyrics, I recognized the scope and acuity of the narrative, expertly woven and fused with the mood of the album.

The story revolves around William and Margaret, chronicling a journey between meeting and reunification and the complications in between. Rolling Stone described it as "a tale of a maiden knocked up by a shape–shifting beast who may be her future husband. There's also a psychotic queen and three revenge–seeking ghost kids." I began reading through the lyrics, equally impressed with how the story connected and that I was singing along with these words without knowing the words.

It seemed fitting to see the Decemberists at the Brown Theater, the mood of the music enhanced by the ornamental flourishes of a bygone era. Pre show music included selections from Anne Briggs, Nic Jones, Maddy Prior and June Tabor, all 60's and 70's British Folk singers who had a hand in the inspiration of the Hazards of Love, an appropriate prelude. As the band began, they were both strong and playful, light and intense. An enthusiastic, near sell-out crowd on a Monday night, there were some moments that just brought the house down. Main singer/songwriter Colin Meloy has a crisp and clear voice that has both power and earnestness that gives the delivery a real edge. Maybe it's that northwestern accent, like a newscaster working on his non-regional diction, that adds to the mythical quality of the narrative. The two female vocalists on the album, each from separate bands, were able to tour in support of the album, each giving commanding performances of range and energy. They played the entire album, all seventeen songs, front to back, and it was amazing to see it live. After a brief intermission, the band returned for another full set for another ten songs from their catalogue, including the finale of the impromptu action story, a reenactment of "The Tragedy of Seabiscuit", with half of the band moving into the audience with tambourines, drums & cymbals to act out the spontaneous lyrics, culminating with a meteor crashing into Kentucky and wiping out the continental US. It seemed the perfect surreal ending to an evening of antediluvian fantasy.

If nothing else, the sheer ambition of The Hazards of Love is impressive, and the Decemberists have taken hits from those who believe that the effort falls way short. I was actually quite surprised as I made my way through album reviews at the number, and intensity, of negative reviews: Spin calls it "proggish pomposity" for "smarty-pants fans", Blender blasted its "sesquipedalian hijinks". Now, I understand that what could be described as a theatrical folk-rock opera with ornately antiquarian diction might not be your thing, but there's some animosity here, critics taking personal offense at the Decemberists making music they don't enjoy. Entertainment Weekly writes, "Frontman Colin Meloy has many unique gifts as a songwriter — gifts that have all but deserted him on this regrettable attempt at a prog opera. Hazards of Love drowns in convoluted plots, blustery guest vocalists, and comically out-of-place guitar shredding". Another fine example of passing off subjective opinion as objective critique. There's so much music in the world, find what you enjoy and enjoy it. I can only speak to what impressed me- before the next matryoshka doll opened to reveal the ambitious plot- that I was singing along with these rich melodies before I ever reached the underlying text. And for me there can't be a clearer testament to the strength of the music.

Setlist:
Prelude
The Hazards of Love 1 (The Prettiest Whistles Won't Wrestle The Thistles Undone)
A Bower Scene
Won't Want For Love (Margaret in the Taiga)
The Hazards of Love 2 (Wager All)
The Queen's Approach
Isn't It A Lovely Night
The Wanting Comes In Waves / Repaid
An Interlude
The Rake's Song
The Abduction of Margaret
The Queen's Rebuke / The Crossing
Annan Water
Margaret In Captivity
The Hazards of Love 3 (Revenge!)
The Wanting Comes In Waves (Reprise)
The Hazards of Love 4 (The Drowned)

Intermission

Oceanside
July, July!
The Sporting Live
Yankee Bayonette
The Calamity Song
Crane Wife 3
Dracula's Daughter
O Valencia
Crazy On You
Red Right Ankle
A Cautionary Song (w/The Tragedy of Seabiscuit)

The Decemberists

Louisville KY
August 10, 2009

Louisville's Sordid History

Bloody Monday, August 6, 1855
Louisville KY

A few years ago I stumbled across a reference to an incident in Louisville's history. I was perplexed. It seemed fabricated; that couldn't happen here, not in my city. Especially with me living here so many years and not hearing about it, without it ever coming up in conversation or school in civics or history. No, surely that's a mistake, the land of urban legend and conspiracy theory. I was the one, however, that was very mistaken.

In 1855, there was a major political party known as the Know Nothing Party, uniting its constituents under the banner of Nativism, or the favoring of existing inhabitants of a region over any immigrants (a wary and ironic eye from the Chickasaw and Shawnee peoples here). Now, this is a pretty sterilized, clinical rendering of the situation; even Charleton Heston's "Damn, dirty apes!" outburst doesn't reach the cold, hard kernel of violent loathing at the heart of the Know Nothing Party, a term now synonymous with anti-immigration and xenophobia. The rise of this party coincided with the major influx of Irish and German immigrants in not only this city but the entire country, with the looming shadow of Catholicism surrounding them, and if the human condition tells us anything, it's that we fear that which is different from what we know.

In those days, newspapers were openly affiliated with political parties, and Louisville was no exception, with the Louisville Journal providing the mouthpiece for its editor, George Prentice (a current statue stands in front of Louisville's Main Public Library). He also happened to be one of the main sources of blame, fanning the embers that would result in a conflagration like this city had never seen.

It was Election Day, August 6, 1855, and the air was charged. The Know Nothing Party was in power- the mayor, most of the council, many judges, the appointed poll workers. Prentice even wrote about the “most pestilent influence of the foreign swarms”, but even in this tense climate, no precautions were taken to provide additional security at polling stations. With the view that only natural born "Americans" had the right to vote, and utter disdain for German and Irish immigrants, poll workers refused access to these foreign-born-naturalized-citizens wishing to cast their ballots. An account from the Louisville Courier, the newspaper of Democrats, states that they were "deterred from voting by direct acts of intimidation, others through fear of consequences, and a multitude from a lack of proper facilities." Altercations increased and intensified into the streets; menacing groups of people were swirling and gathering into mobs and running head first into confrontations, and by mid-afternoon, weapons were making their presence known. "Flying rumors were circulated through the city that the Germans had, with guns and muskets, taken possession of the First Ward polls, and soon thousands of men and boys were running to that portion of the city." From the Louisville Journal, the Know Nothings reacted to news of rioting and bloodshed, "with cries of vengeance upon the murderers, they sought them out and hunted them into the houses that were despoiled or destroyed."

The main areas of rioting occurred in the areas of Butchertown's Shelby and Green Streets as well as the area known then as Quinn's Row, a block at 11th and Main that was a hub of Irish living. Terror escalated with the sound of guns and the fires that were consuming buildings. Quinn's Row was destroyed by flame, as a witness described that "these houses were chiefly tenanted by Irish, and upon any of the tenants venturing out to escape the flames they were immediately shot down." Reports of beatings, stabbing, muskets, cannons, killing, fires and destruction sent a wave of fear throughout the city. Stores were looted and by midnight the glow of fire was all over the city. It was Mayor John Barbee, himself a member of the Know Nothing Party, that to his credit made impassioned speeches to try and calm some of the mobs, saving the burning of St. Martin’s Catholic Church on Shelby St. when he verified there were no stockpiles of guns present, as well as the landmark Cathedral of the Assumption on 5th St.

The rioting went on into the night, and with morning light, the city awoke in horror and disgust. Contradictory and exaggerated news reports assigning blame were carried by national newspapers. The Louisville Courier statement that rings the most true for me is that “the foreigners knew well that they were a small body in the midst of a multitude of persons ready at a moment’s warning to commit any deed of violence. They had long been threatened; throughout the day, in every effort to enjoy that right of suffrage guaranteed to them by the Constitution and laws of this Commonwealth, they had been pursued by mobs of half-grown boys. Their houses were threatened, and warned by the experience of the day, they prepared to defend their lives and property.” Sifting through the records to find truth is an inexact business, with the death toll standing somewhere between 22 and 100, but enough records survive that the black eye is still visible.

It was the New York Times that stated it best in the August 11, 1855 edition, and would be well remembered today, "We trust the occurrences at Louisville will operate as a warning against the heated and maddening controversies, growing out of differences of race and religion, to which they owe their rise. It will take Louisville a long time to outlive the disgrace of the scenes just enacted within her limits."

An Evening With the Old 97's

I love the din of a crowd before a show, when the music is at the perfect volume and you get lost in the cacophony of the ebb and flow of a room full of buzzing conversations, not making out a single word, just riding the wave of anticipation. It's a humid night at Headliners and it is reassuring to see Louisville turn out to support touring music during the summer. The first act tonight is Murry Hammond, the bassist of the Old 97's, on acoustic guitar and harmonium, in a down-home style straight from the southwest. He's the kind of guy you want around after a hard day's cattle drive, after you build that fire and read some Grapes of Wrath and need a nighttime soundtrack to look at the stars. His voice suits his songs and the feel of what he's going for and was a perfect first act for the night.

Rhett Miller is the second act of the night, and it's just him and his acoustic. He puts about as much energy into an acoustic guitar as possible, and boy does he make the ladies swoon. It's like a mass reenactment of the scene in Back to the Future when the mom as her younger self swings her hair around and says "Isn't he a dream boat?". That's Rhett Miller, in his smart black collared shirt unbuttoned to his xiphoid process, the bane of EMT's everywhere. All of that said, his voice holds up and his hyper-rhythmic strumming hits all the right pops and sizzles of a snare drum. He puts so much of himself into his solo show that I can't even knock him for his looks and supermodel wife.

Set:
1. Like Love
2. Caroline
3. Help Me Suzanne
4. Refusing Temptation
5. Singular Girl
6. Bonfire
7. Come Around
8. Wave of Mutilation (pixies)

The Old 97's are a permission slip for Rhett Miller to cut loose, and there's no acoustic guitar here, but dual electrics. Their set is some of the most fun, upbeat, outdoor grillin, friends-over-for-a-party music I can think of, the kind that moves your hips and shoulders before you know what's gotten into you. By the seventh song, Rollerskate Skinny, when Rhett is singing "I believe in Love, but it don't believe in me", the crowd is eating out of his hand; he is the Pied Piper of Louisville, the High Prophet of Love Gone Wrong. Rhett's getting sweaty, his voice is getting raspy and the ladies are getting crazy. He is not, however, the cocky pretty boy I expect him to be. He has a genuine humility and appreciation for the moment that I can't look down upon. Toward the end of the set, he says, "In my sweaty fervor, I forgot to ask y'all how you're doing tonight?". It seems that the stage is also place germane for fun. In the end, the packed house at Headliners was treated to a good time had by all, with the crowd singing along to their favorites and the band happy to be the Old 97's.

b


Setlist:
1. Dance With Me
2. Barrier Reef
3. Doreen
4. No Baby
5. Mama Tried (Merle Haggard)
6. Salome
7. Rollerskate Skinny
8. Here's to the Halcyon
9. If My Heart Was A Car
10. missed title patsy cline song(?)
11. Question
12. Because I do (from where I stand)(?)
13. Ride
14. Big Brown Eyes
15. She's the center(?)
16. Book of Poems
17. The Easy Way
18. Always hearing voices in the street

The Last Shot

July 17, 2009
Headliners Music Hall
Louisville KY

Bob Dylan @ Slugger Field, Louisville KY 07.08.09

Research.

Time Machine

It's been a week. A full week. I have spent no money because there's none left to spend, but this macbook pro is a beautiful machine. I love the metallic silver construction, the backlit keyboard, the ease of an apple designed computer. It's been so long since I've used a laptop without it being plugged into a wall that it feels like magic to have a seven hour battery. The screen is brighter, the volume louder, the speed incredibly faster. It also, however, removes some convenient excuses that have allowed me to talk myself out of following through on some ideas.
I've been wanting to take some time and focus on becoming proficient on piano. I taught myself enough to get by and have been putting off a more detailed study and practice of it. Now my laptop is fast enough to plug into the one I have.
I've been wanting to write more and find the discipline to do it, to take time every day and make it a priority.
I've been wanting to record more, throw down another round of quick ideas and flesh them out, expanding to different instruments and sounds and effects and techniques.
I'd like to have more time for photography, to focus on being present and available in any location to pull out that one image that matters.
I find so much value in cooking that I'd like to spend some time studying and preparing and grilling and basting and presenting.
But for all that this incredible macbook pro does, it does not generate time. That's really what I could use more of right about now.

Every New Beginning

As I lay to rest my beloved ibook, I think about all we've been through. A lot has happened in five years. It travelled the country with me, allowed me to put out fires, write gig reports on the road, play speed marbles, make quick playlists, and watch Anchorman in the middle of the night a multitude times. I'll miss the pearly white sheen of its exterior, the feel of its weight under my arm. At least it wasn't a slow, painful demise. We never talked about it, but I think the ibook would have wanted me to move on. I decided to give it a try. I went to this Genius Bar, it was pretty crowded. I hung out there for a bit in the back, it was getting close to closing time, and I met someone. I was filled with anxiety, blacked out, and woke up this morning with an empty wallet and a new macbook pro. I may not leave the house today.

Beautiful night for a game

West Virginia, both wild AND wonderful

If you own a Mac

Beautiful Lincoln County KY

Gomez

Gomez @ Headliners 05.27.09

Once upon a time in Texas a few years ago, I found myself in Austin and ended up at Stubb's to catch the Nickel Creek show. The band playing before them was called Gomez, and I had never heard of them. It was South by Southwest, after all, so it wasn't unusual to have never heard of someone. However, Kyle's slack jawed look of horror told me that I was about to be schooled.

Gomez hails from Southport, England, and released their first album in 1998, and they just released their sixth album a couple of months ago, A New Tide. They are one of those examples of the music industry that make you shake your head; it boggles my mind that these guys aren't more well known and selling out arenas. I guarantee you have heard one of their songs within the past two years either on a tv show or a commercial, as their last album How We Operate was everywhere. I was fortunate enough to catch their set a couple of months ago, again at SXSW this year, and it was just enough to make me really excited about their coming to town.

A Gomez show is impressive from a technological standpoint; I always like to see guys playing the computer, adding blips and bleeps and loops and bass hits (I'm looking at you Airstream Driver). Some iphones made their way to the microphones for some added keys and sonic manipulation. It was also a pretty diverse setlist, spanning the decade all the way back to the first album. The opener, for example, was Revolutionary Kind from 2001's Liquid Skin, and set the tone for the night with it's dreamy dub drive and swaddling groove. Standouts included Win Park Slope, Detroit Swing 66, Airstream Driver, See The World, and actually a number of others. I'm also a sucker for ebow, which made an appearance on Little Pieces. The closing song was a fantastic How We Operate with a retooled intro that allowed a sparse haunting to mesmerize you before kicking into the frantic paranoia of the song. Overall it was a fantastic show that was supported by the city, on a Wednesday night no less, so thanks Louisville for going to Headliners. One quick note about fashion: Gomez is one of the most unassuming, unpretentious bands I've ever seen. At one point I thought that it's funny that these goofballs make such great music. Maybe because it's the kind of guys I normally hang out with anyway.

The Post Derby Blog

If you have ever spent time in Manhattan, you have probably experienced the unique mix of emotion that usually comes when it's time to leave because you've run out of money and have obligations back home: melancholy, pensiveness, sadness, longing. It's that feeling of having a euphoric time and not wanting it to end. For me, to my tastes, this is very similar to how I feel about the Kentucky Derby, except the exact opposite.

A friend told me a few years ago never to send an email when you're angry or upset; maybe you will feel differently in a few hours or days. Of course this is excellent advice, and was given in response to an "incident" of mine, so we chalked it up to learning. We can assume that this applies to blogs as well, so I gave it some time. For rational analysis. Or to percolate? Simmer? Stew in a crock pot? That's the way this morning has been. Maybe I'm not a Composter, or maybe I don't want to be known as a composting-enthusiast, but I was taking some inside scraps to the temporary-paper-bag-of-compost-until-we-get-a-large-one. This temporary device was looking pretty shabby, especially after the rain, so I decided to transfer it to a more stable temporary device: a dry paper bag. Don't look at me like that. So I stand on the deck, fulfilling some kind of fated Graecian Tragedy, putting one completely soaked-through paper bag of rotting sludge into another. Any normal, sane, awake, caffeinated person would know that the bottom would fall out. Even my half-asleep, uncaffeinated self knew it might happen and to take extra care. Of course it still happened. I don't know how long I stood there. Staring. Sludge. Feet. It was like Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock's Vertigo, with the spiraling red swirls behind his head, or Uma Therman in Kill Bill, the red background and siren when she encounters her attackers. At some point, I rummaged through the garage, finding an older small plastic can to try and shovel this mess into, when as I pick it up a black widow runs across the handle. It did cross my mind that the police might show up, responding to the screams of what might possibly have been the kidnapping of a 4 year old girl. I don't really know what happened next or how it got cleaned up, as my cerebellum fused. So, it is in this context that I write about the Kentucky Derby.

There are a few good things about the Derby. It is an economic stimulus for the city. It puts Louisville on the map. It's as good an excuse as any to get together with friends and/or family. There's a history involved. If you go, if you like it, if you look forward to it for a full year, then I'm glad it does it for you. Sincerely, I'm glad you enjoy it.

But let's be honest; it's a two minute horse race. They go around a track. That's all.

I think it's the pomp and circumstance, the superficiality, the inflation, the hypocrisy, the waste, and separation of social strata that gets to me. That's actually quite a list. I guess ol' lady justice is tipping heavily to one side at this point. This is a pretty succinct description of what grinds my gears. This is a funny city; I've lived here most of my life. It is strange to me to see the outcome of all of the influences on the city. It kind of all comes down to your view of if Louisville is a Northern City or a Southern City. We have lots of bars. And lots of churches. Both sweet and unsweet tea. Back in the day, Green Street here in our fair city was well known for it's brothels. Changing it's name to Liberty St. can't erase the past. A high Catholic population. A high Baptist population. We hung with the Union in the Civil War (barely). We have our Seelbach Hotel with it's stories of Al Capone and F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Great Gatsby. Most people here also have quite the dialectal drawl. It's quite the mix.

I also think that it's telling that on either side of the twin spires are the hot spots, the exclusive areas. On the west side is the area that includes the Clubhouse Suites, Turf Club, and Millionaires Row. This area is exclusive for people who need to be seen being exclusive. The Turf Club is the white hot end of this, with a grand half-circular staircase and wall of glass to make it easier for the really wealthy to view the absurdly wealthy/famous. On the east side is the Jockey Club Suites, and it is exclusive with the purpose of being exclusive, accessible by one elevator only. This is mainly the successful business/political area.

And then there's the infield. A very safe view from the exclusive areas, encouraged as long as there is a separation via a tunnel, the infield is it's own beast. Most people don't see the poem inscribed on a plaque as you enter the infield:
"Give me your dehydrated, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to drink free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the shirtless, mud covered to me,
I lift my exacta box beside the betting window!"

I also wonder if it's the obsession with celebrity that is setting me off this year. Not even celebrity, I can get that to an extent. It's the celebrities who are known for absolutely no good reason at all. Famous for being famous. Makes my head hurt.
I came home that night and sat down with Hunter S. Thompson's The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved. And I didn't even need to read past the title.