Pretty Goes with Pretty

Dear Music Industry: Go DiePart I: Cleanup on Aisle 7

I’ve had a general distaste for the corporate music industry for a while now—ever since they started suing music fans, basically—but in the last month or so a handful of different stories have made that distaste coalesce into a full-on loathing. The last I saw was this, from Rolling Stone (via a thread at Last Plane to Jakarta), which paints the industry’s fate in the most dire terms.

Overall CD sales have plummeted sixteen percent for the year so far—and that’s after seven years of near-constant erosion. In the face of widespread piracy, consumers’ growing preference for low-profit-margin digital singles over albums, and other woes, the record business has plunged into a historic decline.

So the music industry is dying. My reaction? Good fucking riddance. Anything I can do to help it along, let me know. Music has never been better nor more accessible, and the majors’ woes are completely their own fault (which the Rolling Stone article also claims). They haven’t cared about actual music for decades. They’ve cared about converting plastic discs into cash, and people don’t want plastic discs anymore. If they’d done anything to foster creativity in their artists, maybe I’d feel more sympathetic.

For the amount of ink spilled on the subject, you’d think it was all your fault. Heartless music fans have bypassed the saintly corporations in satisfying their sinful needs. I think it’s worth taking another look and who really killed the music industry. (hint: there’s a run on Cheerios on aisle 14.)

One of the common refrains you hear when people disdain downloading is the mp3’s inferiority to the tangible object, the CD. Most recently it came from the mouth of Jesse Harris, songwriter behind Norah Jones’s big hit “Don’t Know Why,” when he was interviewed for the Onion AV Club’s “Random Rules”:

I buy CDs. I do. I still like to have the artwork, and see the credits, and have the CD in my hand, and take it in the car. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get over that. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace that with mp3s. Besides, I just don’t think mp3s sound that good. They’re definitely of a lower quality.

It’s literally the same old vinyl vs. CD debate, only the CD—once derided for its artwork-unfriendly format and lesser sound quality—has been recast as the virtuous format. Seriously, isn’t this debate corny? Who wants to look at a 4x4” panel of artwork and read the producing credits and thank-you list when you can experience a terrific website, read your favorite band’s blog, and interact directly with the musician? Preferring a tired old CD booklet is for luddites only. CDs have nothing on mp3s—except for the experience of going to a record store, sifting through the aisles looking for some undiscovered gem, interacting with record store employees who can guide you to something better and talk, face to face with actual voices, about music.

That’s no small thing—in fact it’s something I value a great deal—but don’t believe for a second that the powers behind the music industry give two shits about that experience. The industry is concerned about Wal-Mart and its big-box brethren, and that’s it. According to the Rolling Stone article:

About 2,700 record stores have closed across the country since 2003, according to the research group Almighty Institute of Music Retail. Last year the eighty-nine-store Tower Records chain, which represented 2.5 percent of overall retail sales, went out of business, and Musicland, which operated more than 800 stores under the Sam Goody brand, among others, filed for bankruptcy. Around sixty-five percent of all music sales now take place in big-box stores such as Wal-Mart and Best Buy, which carry fewer titles than specialty stores and put less effort behind promoting new artists.

Look at that. Tower accounted for 2.5 measly percent of retail sales. Wal-Mart and Best Buy are the top two music retailers in the U.S., with Target and other multi-retailers not far off. The music industry’s lack of distinction between these stores and Tower or Musicland had far more to do with their closing than illegal downloads ever could. Tower couldn’t compete with a store that doesn’t mind taking a loss on Avril Lavigne if it means you’ll buy your groceries while you’re there. Today, the industry still values big boxes over bricks-and-mortar music retailers: witness the Smashing Pumpkins promotional debacle, in which Wal-Mart, Target, and iTunes get copies with unique bonus tracks, while Virgin—never mind mom & pops—are stuck selling an essentially incomplete album. The industry is actively discouraging you from patronizing an actual record store.

Yet when Tower went out of business, the majority of blame was laid at the doorstep of music fans—the dastardly pirates. It was perceived as a harbinger of the death of the music industry. Tower’s demise signified one thing and one thing only—the music industry turned its back on music lovers long ago. They only care about Wal-Mart. But does Wal-Mart care about the music industry? No. They’re not interested in competing with iTunes and mp3s. When the plastic disc dies, it will fill its shelves with more deodorants and foot cream. Wal-Mart will roll on without so much as flinching. Just desserts for the music industry; the people who lose their jobs at Sony can go get work at Proctor & Gamble.

Tomorrow: How Does it Feel to be Sam Walton's Bitch?

[Update: Mike Barthel is guest posting at Idolator and his post on Kelly Clarkson and the "Death of the Tusk Era" is tangentially related to some of what I'm talking about, particularly as it gets on in the comments section.]

Journey Without Maps Addendum

A day or so after my previous post, I took up Norman Sherry's biography of Graham Greene, which I've been reading concurrently as I trek through Greeneland. I was pleased to see that both of my assumptions outlined in that post—that Greene's Liberian journey spawned an indeliable link for him between the acts of writing and traveling, and that the form of writing a travelogue informed his overall skill—were validated through a couple of anecdotal passages. Of the latter assumption, there was this passage:

His letters to his mother, to [his brother] Hugh, and to literary agents, his articles, book and film reviews, after he had established himself in London, all reveal a growing sense of confidence, and one wonders whether this was not in part due to the fact that he had, in Liberia, experienced what few of his contemporaries in London had experienced: he had undertaken a journey into the unknown, come close to the primitive origins of mankind, journeyed without maps and had, like those who had survived the horrors of the First World War, come through—by means of his own determination and grit. Certainly, he now had a surge of creative energy which was nothing short of phenomenal.

Of course it's not difficult to look at a list of Greene's books and see, quite simply, that all of his best-known novels followed right after Journey Without Maps—obviously something happened. But I'm encountering most of Greene's novels in succession; I've read a few of the later novels but I've been trying to put them to the back of my mind as I follow his development. So my experience of Journey was really the sense of "hey, the writer of England Made Me was developing," as opposed to the sense of "here's where the writer of The Quiet American got his shit together"—know what I mean? This passage from Sherry let's me know that I'm not imagining things.

As to the other point—that Greene essentially caught the travel bug and, consciously or not, entwined it with his fiction writing—this anecdote was both entertaining and insightful to that end. To set the scene: Greene at this point was still writing Journey Without Maps and A Gun for Sale, while England Made Me had just come out—to lackluster reception. Greene, with his agent Nancy Pearn, was soliciting numerous magazines with short stories and pitches for stories, and not always meeting with success. He was very close to finishing both his works in progress, but he also had a wife and two children and income was an issue. Pearn suggested giving a pitch for a story to the News Chronicle.

With so much on hand Greene might well have let the suggestion of a synopsis for the News Chronicle sleep awhile. Not so. The day after promising to think abut a story he produced a synopsis called “Miss Mitton in Moscow” and coupled it with the astonishing idea that he should leave for Moscow, almost immediately, his urgent deadlines for his two books notwithstanding: “Here is the synopsis of a 10,000 word story for the News Chronicle. If they feel inclined to commission it, could you hurry up their decision, as I want to get in the background and the satirical description of the tourists, as it were, on the spot. In other words, will they make up their minds so that I can book a seat for Moscow to leave in ten days!”

It is strange that on the suggestion of a commission for a serial Greene was willing to drop everything and go to Moscow. It could not be because the synopsis promised a brilliant story, yet he was prepared to follow his star to Moscow, chasing after background for a story about a bored, disillusioned journalist meeting up with an old lady’s naïvety and excitement in visiting Moscow for the first time; of how her absurdities become a topic of conversation; of how he has to help her out of the country ahead of the other tourists as she had tried the Moscow authorities too much; only to discover, when he finds himself to be a central figure in an advertised Soviet Trial that Miss Mitton was a dye expert and had carried out a smart piece of commercial espionage.

The literary editor of the News Chronicle liked the synopsis and asked the see the first instalment, which Nancy Pearn thought encouraging, but this was not sufficient for Greene: “I explained it was dependent on a definite decision within ten days. The boat’s sailed now & there’s not another till the spring. Besides it’s a costly business & I wouldn’t take the trip without a definite commission. So we’ll have to wait for another story to come to mind.

Graham Greene: Journey Without Maps

[A lot of people seem to be finding my Graham Greene posts via Google, so I hope my regular readers will forgive the repetition of this first bit (probably my regular readers just scroll past anyway—be honest, you just want me to keep writing about Feist): I've tasked myself with reading all of Graham Greene's books in succession. If you're curious to read my thoughts on any of Greene's other novels, click here and see if I've gotten to it yet. ]

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Journey Without Maps, Graham Greene's nonfiction travelogue recounting his audacious 1935 trip through Liberia, on the western coast of Africa, is like a wedge shoved deep into his oeuvre. While it is not the book that catapulted him from merely popular novelist to lasting literary influence, it nonetheless signals a shift in his ability as a writer. The seeds of his talent have been present in his last few novels, but the experience of Africa—and the way he wrote about it—feel as if someone has put those seeds in the path of direct sunlight.

Greene has come to be known for novels in which his (usually British) protagonists exist in foreign, underdeveloped—hot—beautiful landscapes: The Quiet American in Vietnam; The Heart of the Matter and A Burnt-Out Case in Africa; The Power and the Glory in Mexico; The Comedians in Haiti; and so on. All of those novels came later. Prior to his trip to Africa, Greene’s first four (actually six) novels all took place in England or, I suggest, ostensible stand-ins for England. The Man Within and It’s a Battlefield both take place inside the country. Orient Express follows a largely British cast (save the Yugoslavian Dr. Czinner and the Austrian Grünlich), but the novel exists outside of any one country as it travels across Europe. The characters exist in a self-contained bubble. Likewise England Made Me concerns itself mostly with twin siblings Anthony and Kate Farrant, Brits who have taken up in Stockholm; but the majority of the action occurs in the context of the global corporation they work for, Krogh’s, a company which conducts its business in English. The Stockholm setting is largely arbitrary; Anthony’s struggle has more to do with his placement within the company than it  does within a foreign city. And of course, the title alone should tip you off that Sweden is not the country Greene is most concerned with.

It’s no surprise that Greene had yet to bring the exotic locations into his novels—though his tentative fictional forays out of England in those two novels (plus Anthony Farrant’s background as someone who had lived in Shanghai, Aden, and elsewhere) do point to some inevitable desire to place his characters outside of the familiar. No surprise, because Greene was a realist writer; from the very beginning he’s had to experience his locations in order to write about them, whether walking from the outskirts of Lewes into its center for The Man Within or taking a weekend trip to Stockholm for England Made Me; and as of 1935 that was essentially the extent of his traveling experience. Paul Theroux’s introduction to Journey Without Maps (which incidentally is a worthy read after you’ve finished the book—he calls bullshit on much of what Greene writes of) spells it out:

[Greene] had hardly traveled. He had made jaunts out of England, but in a hilarious, weekending way, and had never ventured beyond Europe. He knew nothing of Africa, had never camped or slept rough or been on a long sea voyage or a long hike of any consequence—certainly not a trek through the bush. Probably influenced by the journeys his friends and contemporaries were taking, he got it into his head to hike with porters and carriers through an unmapped part of the Liberian hinterland; he did not know exactly how many miles he would have to walk , or how long it would take, or what his actual route would be.

Much odder than this vagueness—to me, at any rate... was Greene's decision to take his young female cousin Barbara with him. She was twenty-three, she had never been anywhere, she'd had a privileged upbringing, she was not much of a walker.

In other words, Greene really had no business attempting this journey. But he did accomplish it—suffering fever along the way—and he considered it a life-changing experience.

Journey Without Maps is a dramatic act on Greene’s part to bring the far corners—the desperate corners—of the world into his realm of experience, and therefore into his writing. Besides being a realist, he was also a devotee of Joseph Conrad, and many other contemporaries (Waugh, for instance) were making similar African pilgrimages in Conrad’s footsteps. On one level, at least, Greene’s trip is a naïve rite of passage—more an attempt to acquire a level of “experience” any novelist worth his salt should have than a conscious act to “change” his fiction. In fact the Liberian trip didn’t factor into his fiction at all, other than a short story, “A Chance for Mr. Lever.” Nevertheless Greene’s subsequent travels, often as ambitious as the Liberian episode, did factor directly into his novels. Within three years he was riding a mule through Mexico, which resulted in the nonfiction Lawless Roads and the novel The Power and the Glory. Soon he would return to Africa, to Sierra Leone, where he lived for a year; here he set The Heart of the Matter. Later in life he would return to Africa a third time with the express mission of researching for A Burnt-Out Case, which takes place in a leper colony.

But I think what may separate Greene’s pre-Journey novels from those that came after is more significant than mere scene setting. Looking back at the pre-Journey novels, all but Orient Express are flawed; they each seem to occupy themselves with a preconceived theme that stamps its way across every page at the expense of realism (in The Man Within), character (It’s a Battlefield), or form (England Made Me—which includes odd forays into stream-of-consciousness interior monologues)—in other words, much of what Greene is best remembered for. Journey, by its very nature, could not suffer in the same way. Greene didn’t know what to expect. All he could do was record what he saw and reflect as went. Thus the heat of Africa and its lush greenery, the natives’ nakedness and alternately strange, stoic, or childlike behavior, became the bulk of the book’s content, colored at every turn by Greene’s very real emotions—anxiety, anticipation, exhaustion, homesickness. After reading the pre-Journey novels, where melodrama frequently forced its way into a scene to derail its believability, Journey Without Maps reads to me almost like a disciplinary exercise for Greene—he couldn’t insert melodrama; he was forced instead to rely on its more subtle cousin, tension. I’ll bet that its no accident that, regardless of their settings, Greene’s string of best-regarded novels followed nearly one after the other directly after Journey Without Maps (not including the noir thriller A Gun for Sale, which was written simultaneously with Journey)—Brighton Rock, The Power and the Glory, The Heart of the Matter, The End of the Affair, and The Quiet American. The fact that England-set Brighton Rock was the first in that succession indicates that exotic scene setting was not the first or only lesson Greene learned through his trip or through the writing of Journey Without Maps.

Enjoy the Weekend: Fred Astaire

Fred Astaire: "The Carioca"

Enjoy.

My Listening Hours: Looking Forward

What would a hopelessly belabored look back be without a giddy and optimistic look forward? Well, giddy might be too strong a word—looking at the next three months, there’s not a lot that looks totally essential. For me, I’ll be at the record store on a Tuesday for just one release, the New Pornographers’ Challengers. (I know, I know, I can get it now—but as I understand it it’s only as a stream, which is not a convenient format for me; and I’m also fighting my own battle against the need for bands to unleash their b-sides and demos upon the world; I find it unnecessary and often debilitating). The rest look good and I’ll be paying attention to the advance word on all of them. If the time and money is right, they’ll come home with me from Amoeba. What are you looking forward to? Whether I’ve got it listed or not—especially if I don’t—tell me what’s coming down the pike that’s got you camped outside your local record shop come Monday night.

I should say first that there’s one other album I’m eager to hear, and it just came out last week: Tied & Tickled Trio’s Aelita. I’ve been listening to their last album, 2003’s Observing Systems, pretty regularly since it came out—yes, regularly for a full four years. I just never tire of it. Most people paying attention to the German indie scene have been eagerly awaiting the next Notwist album; I am too, sure, but in fact I find this side project to be much more satisfying. You can expect me to go into more detail once I’ve tracked down a copy.

Interpol, Our Love to Admire (7/10)
Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (7/10)
Two veteran bands that are likely to put out records that don’t travel too far afield from there previous albums. I’ve heard one song from Interpol so far and it’s disappointingly too similar to all they’ve done before. Spoon, meanwhile, have been getting all the internet buzz lately and I do love the three albums I have by them. I’ll probably pick this up and I’ll probably like it.

Tegan & Sara, The Con (7/24)
So Jealous turned out to be one of my singalong albums of 2006, so I’m looking forward to hearing their new stuff to see if they’ve continued in that direction. Earlier material from these sisters is largely insufferable, so I am the tiniest bit wary; but So Jealous was such an unequivocal departure that I can’t imagine they’ll regress.

Okkervil River, The Stage Names (8/7)
Never did buy Black Sheep Boy, nor any other albums by these critics’ darlings. I’ve nevertheless accumulated five or six songs without even trying, and I find a couple of them simply outstanding. The rest occupy territory I mined pretty well in the 90s when I bought everything on Drag City. Okkervil River can often sound like the also-rans of that era—Appendix Out, Royal City, Lullaby for the Working Class, early Songs: Ohia, et al. Sometimes a little melodramatic, sometimes a little cliché. But when it’s on it’s great, and it seems like these guys are more than capable of being on. So I’m paying attention.

New Pornographers, Challengers (8/21)
My brilliant wife inexplicably cannot get into the New Pornographers. She tries, because she knows I love them. Occasionally a song from one of their other three albums will come on and she’ll pipe up, “I like this one!” but play two tracks in a row and she starts to get a pained look on her face. I am cautiously optimistic about the fact that she is all over “My Rights vs. Yours.” I am irresponsibly optimistic about the fact that I am all over this song too.

Shout Out Louds, Our Ill Wills (9/11)
I saw the video for their song “Tonight I Have to Leave It” and thought it was okay—not terribly different from the songs on their debut, Howl Howl Gaff Gaff. That turned out to be a pretty fun album, if a touch samey. I’ll keep my ears open for more songs from this album and may plunk down some cash. I got into these guys at the same time I got into the Futureheads and the Kaiser Chiefs, neither of whom were able to replicate the fun of their debuts. Fingers crossed for the Shout Out Louds. At least they're from Northern Europe; they’re drinking the right water (see Peter Bjorn & John, Radio Dept., Jose Gonzalez, Kings of Convenience, Sondre Lerche, et al.)

Kevin Drew, Spirit If… (9/18)
I fucking love the last Broken Social Scene album, way more than it seems a lot of other people do, even. (I for one think it towers over You Forgot it in People.) I also liked Drew’s cameo on The Reminder. Why then am I wary of this album? I have no legitimate reason to be.

Iron & Wine, Shepherd’s Dog (9/25)
Jose Gonzalez, In Our Nature (9/25)
Taken in small doses, Gonzalez’s debut album was a moody gem—it sounds almost like James Taylor covering the entirety of Pink Moon. But too many similar songs in a row made that record too dour for me. I’ll likely only be interested in his next album if he brings some variety to his arrangements and dynamics. As for Sam Beam’s Iron & Wine, I only have his wonderfully spare first album (also a very samey record), which I like. I never got around to picking up his later material so I don’t really know that I’ll get this one either, unless someone comes around and convinces me otherwise.

My Listening Hours: The State of 2007 So Far

No, the albums here are not my tops of the year; they're just what I have to choose from. These are the nine albums made in 2007 that I've so far purchased or acquired, and/or completely processed as albums.

If I were pressed to make a top ten list, I'd stall at four. Here's my ranking:

1. Andrew Bird, Armchair Apocrypha
This one leads the pack, easily, as the most rewarding album of the year.

2. Peter Bjorn & John, Writer's Block
This album has remained in my iPod for a surprisingly long time. When I got a little burned on the record as a whole, the songs kept popping up on random plays and I never skipped 'em. Lately I've come back around to playing the record straight through again and I'm reminded of how layered and thought-out the album  is.

3. Feist, The Reminder
For now this occupies the number three spot. By the end of the year there's a good chance it will still be in the top ten, but I don't know how high. I'm just beginning to burn out the record and am ready to put it aside for awhile. The question by the end of the year will be whether it ever makes its way back into my rotation. Sometimes albums have a way of surprising you the second time around and all the nagging feelings you had just evaporate.

4. LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver
As I said earlier this week, this is an album that I'm only now realizing is better than I first gave it credit for. As with Feist I don't really know how I'll feel about six months from now. I don't really know how I'll feel about it six weeks from now! Sometimes I embrace the record, sometimes I'm exhausted by it.

The rest? None are truly bad but none are essential, either. The Sea & Cake committs the worst sin - it's boring. While the Shins, Arcade Fire, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah all have their strong points but honestly I haven't consciously chosen to put them on since the last time I wrote about them - a good three months ago.

There are a few albums out now that I still intend to pick up--Battles and Rufus Wainwright, in particular. What about you? What's on your best-so-far list? Have I missed anything totally worthwhile? There was a lot of buzz around Panda Bear and the National, among others, in the last few months. Did you pick them up? Have they remained in your rotation? What has occupied your listening hours? Let me know in the comments.

Meanwhile I'll be looking ahead to the next three months of releases for albums I'm looking forward to. Check back here later today.

My Listening Hours: The Rest of April–June

Yesterday were the new purchases that really took up most my listening hours over the last few months. Today, all my other new purchases that just didn't stick or just plain stunk. When I surveyed "the rest" in January–March, the discs that wound up in this stable were disappointing or decent, but none were actually bad. Looking here, only Bjork really gets credit for making a record I simply wasn't in the mood for; the rest all make me wish I'd spent my money in smarter ways. I could've gone to Disneyland!

Sea & Cake, Everybody
I don't even know why I bought the Sea & Cake record (truthfully? because I found a promo on sale for a couple bucks). I haven't picked up a Sea & Cake album since The Fawn, though I do own (and like) both Sam Prekop solo albums. What I heard of the Sea & Cake in the intervening decade between The Fawn and Everybody was all just dandy; I just didn't feel impelled to buy it. For some ludicrous reason, though, I held out hope that maybe they'd try something new. But alas, no.

And why don't they try something new? John McEntire is an inventive guy. Archer Prewitt is a great songwriter and singer. Why is the Sea & Cake so much Sam Prekop's show? Prekop is fine, but he seems intent on destroying the very idea of variety in his music. So why not let Prewitt sing along every once in a while? Why not let McEntire experiment a little? There is so much potential in the individual members of the Sea & Cake that the fact that this sounds so little removed from—and lesser than—The Fawn is bewildering. Everybody is a bland record full of samey songs. It's pleasant, but that's a euphemism for boring.

Bjork, Volta
Meanwhile Bjork made a record that for the first time (to my ears) sounds like she took a step back rather than forward. I'm glad to hear that she's returned to using instruments, but she seems to have regressed to territory somewhere beyond the edgy pop of Post and sweeping gestures of Homogenic. That's not necessarily a bad thing, nor is Volta a bad album. All I can say is that it ultimately didn't grab me. Could be the album's fault, could be mine. Could be that I can't stop chanting "here's my wersion of this / eternal virlvind" and it's driving me crazy. I just don't seem to have been in the mood for Bjork this year, much as I'd like to be. When the album comes on I'm cool with it, but I haven't been making a point to put it on.

America, Hat Trick
And we come now to the three "blind spots" (today I use the term loosely) I regretted picking up this season. First up is probably the most embarrassing of all, America's third album, Hat Trick. I blame Midlake, of course. When I first fell in love with them back at the tail end of December I read an All Music review that compared that harmonies and 70s-ish sound to America. So I listened to snippets of America on Barnes & Noble's machiavellian listening stations that only allow you the smallest segment of a song at a time. What'd I hear? Harmonies and 70s-ish sound—kinda like Midlake! So more or less at random my wife and I chose this one. Again, trusting the bastards at All Music (it's no accident that B&N lets you read All Music reviews while using their listening stations), Hat Trick was described as "more ambitious but commercially unsuccessful." Sounds like the perfect candidate for an indie-hipster resusitation!

No such luck. Man, what a fucking turd. America is like the aural equivalent of those pictures where you can see two people looking at each other or a chalice. Sometimes they sound like direct descendents of the Byrds—which is great!—but if you turn your head slightly, suddenly all you can hear is a forerunner to the BeeGees—which is abominable!

Don McLean, The Best of Don McLean
We were at Amoeba one evening and my brilliant wife brought this one over to me, nostalgic for her young high school days, when she had this as a dubbed cassette and listened to it all the fucking time. Me, I was ambivalent at best, but more likely not into spending actual money a greatest hit plus nine other songs. I can truthfully say that I have never in my life actively listened to "American Pie." I can't count how many times the song has come on the radio and I have reached for the dial to change it, only to be stopped by my sister, my mother, my friends, my wife—"Hey, what are you doing? It's 'American Pie'!"—and then made to listen to anyone within earshot sing along to every goddamned word of this eight-minute folk epic. I don't hate the song--hate is a strong word, but I really really really don't like it, to quote the teenage geniuses on MTV right now, whatever they're called.

And now here I was, not actively participating as cash left my hand, to be replaced by The Best of Don McLean. I was optimistic though. I do like the folkies from that era, after all. Start singing "Cat's in the Cradle" or "Operator (That's Not the Way it Feels)" and I'm right there with you, singing loud and proud. The good news is that Don McLean's got some songs that fit that ilk. "American Pie" notwithstanding, there are probably three or four very nice songs here, plus two utterly inessential covers and a couple misfire originals. But even at his best, as in "Vincent," McLean lacks the laser-precise lyrics of Paul Simon, the dynamics and distinctive voice of Cat Stevens, or the emotive quality of Jim Croce. Croce in fact is probably the closest in sound, voice, and lyrical depth of McLean—and Croce's just better.

Van Morrison, Astral Weeks
So I can blame Midlake and All Music for America, and my wife for Don McLean—who's to blame for Van Morrison? What is with the critical praise for this album? It's a hot mess. It's a formless, stream-of-consciousness whining buzz of garbled idiocy. The pleasure to be found in this record is so far over my head, scientists are building a satalite to take pictures of it.

Cold War Kids, Robbers & Cowards
My brilliant wife actually had an innate distrust of Van Morrison; we both agreed she should have listened to her gut and barred us from making the purchase. I had a similar mistrust of the Cold War Kids. The only song I knew by them was "Hang Me Out to Dry," which invariably put that song "Possum King" by the Toadies in my head—do ya wanna die? Not a good sign. Yesterday I ate my own words regarding mp3 bloggers since they brought me Andrew Bird, but all I need to do is see the words "Cold War Kids" on screen and I remember all over again why blog hype is rarely to be trusted.

To both our credit, neither my brilliant wife nor I actually purchased this album; it just sort of made it's way into our house like a flu virus. We listened to it a little. There were some songs that were okay but I still couldn't shake a certain smarminess from their sound. Something about their brand of blues rock just didn't sound the least bit genuine. Jack White, for instance, can articulate the aesthetic choices he makes behind his sound; these guys, I'm pretty sure, just want to get laid and paid.

Then a couple of weeks ago we went to see the Little Ones play at the Echo here in Los Angeles. They were opening for the Cold War Kids. By then we'd seen their video for "Hang Me Out to Dry" and grasped that these dudes could care less whether Gorilla vs Bear or Avril4Eva.com is the reason for their success—they just wanna be famous. But we thought, optimistically, that that wasn't a de facto bad thing; that bands aspiring to arena rock levels might be worthy a fucking entertaining club gig. Then they came out, looking like a frat-boy bar band and dancing around like they were the Spin Doctors.

And that was the end of the Cold War Kids. They've officially left my sphere of awareness. They are now in the mythical land of mainstream rock, where curious chimera such as  Hinder and Rocco de Lucca roam the wilderness.

My Listening Hours: The Best of April–June

Andrew Bird, Armchair Apocrypha
Earlier this year I did a couple of posts concerning my pet peeve about most mp3 blogs. It generated a little discussion and I think brought a lot of new readers here. I still stand by all I said—basically that most mp3 blogs spend too much time hyping, not enough time talking about music—but on the other hand, you've got Andrew Bird's latest album. I absolutely would not have picked up this album if it weren't for the mp3 blogs. Bird has been on my radar for a while but I've just never had the incentive to pick up one of his many records. Then "Heretics" started showing up on every last blog I read and that was the end of it. So, chalk one up for the mp3 bloggers: this is my favorite record of the year by a mile.

I wrote a pretty lengthy review of the album not long after I picked it up (where I too included "Heretics," if you're interested). I won't go on about it again, other than to reiterate that Armchair Apocrypha is the best kind of album: it's a grower. My review went on about that facet but here I am two months later and it is still growing on me. I've declared about eight or nine of the twelve tracks to be my absolute very favoritest in that span of time—curently it's "Scythian Empires."

Feist, The Reminder
Maybe it seems a little funny that I'd chalk this one up as one of my favorites, given my nit-picky review, my suggested re-sequencing, and my malaise concerning the very idea of something called Adult Alternative, but the fact is I've devoted so many posts to this record because I've devoted so many listening hours to it.

Of all the albums slated to come out this year, this was the one that I had probably highest expectactions for—higher than the Shins, higher than Arcade Fire, higher than the New Pornographers, higher than everything. So to that end it is, yes, a little disappointing. But it's worst fault is really that it is merely great rather than perfect. I'm to a point now where I think I've finally played it too many times—maybe. I'm tired of many of the more upbeat songs; but now some of the quieter tracks are beginning to reveal themselves to me, in particular "So Sorry," "Honey Honey," and "The Park." It just goes to show that I was right in my first impression that this is a record full of individually strong songs, even if the album as a whole still doesn't quite cohere for me.

Joni Mitchell, Court and Spark
I was a Joni Mitchell virgin. I thought I knew what to expect—that voice, going up high when you kinda wish she wouldn't, at least not so often. And yes, she does that. And yes, she squeezes lyrics in where the meter shouldn't allow it. And no, it doesn't always work. But I'll tell you, I really wasn't prepared for Mitchell's excellent guitar skills. She takes her playing to Nick Drake levels—beyond mere folkiness and into true, subtle musicianship. Not to mention the harmonies, the lyrics (some feel dated, others still sharp). It doesn't always work—some of the later songs get a little too loose, a little too jazzy—but when this album is on, as in the case of "Help Me" or "Free Man in Paris," wow, it's on.

LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver
I bought this album back in April and, like their last album, I enjoyed some of the songs but not all. It felt weirdly not for me—I don't dance, I don't work out, I don't really do anything that is best-suited to repetitive booty-shakin' beats. Not to mention another part of me wondered: if I'm going to own a dance record, should it be this one? This seems kid tested and hipster approved—in other words, a little fakey.

But I kept listening to it, mostly on random amongst numerous other albums and rarely straight through—a task I found a little too overwhelming. And while some songs have by now died painful deaths as far as my hard drive goes—the title track and the unfortunate "New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down"—the rest of the album has burrowed its way in. The opener is brilliant, and it took me about a month of listening before I realized that three of my favorite songs were actually all parts of the same track, "Us v Them" (I blame my slowness on the fact that all this record's repetition begs you to zone out while you're jamming to it). All the way up until this weekend, as I prepared to write this series of posts, I was expecting to put this album in with the "the rest" (come back tomorrow for those), but on one more casual listen as I sat on the 405, I realized that I have a helluva lot more fun with this album than I ever gave it credit for.

My Listening Hours: April–June

At the end of March I did a series of posts called My Listening Hours, surveying what albums were occupying my iPod for the first three months of the year. Here we are another three months later and I thought I’d take stock once again. So this week you’ll see a series of posts covering the best and the rest—including 2007 releases, filled-in blind spots, and selections from the permanent collection. I’ll also take a look forward to albums coming in the next three months that pique my interest.

Between April and June I picked up ten albums: five were 2007 releases, one from 2006, and the other four were blind spots—albums from previous decades that I feel more musically well-rounded for knowing (whether I like them or not). I wish I could have picked up more; looking back on what I was anticipating last time I did this sort of post, there were thirteen new albums I was excited to hear, and so far I’ve only picked up a small handful. Most of them I probably won’t ever get around to purchasing—sorry, Tarwater—though I remain intent on picking up Battles and Rufus Wainwright. Unfortunately I don’t have the cash or connections to keep up as much as I’d like, nor the time to listen via streams or hunt for leaks.

As I noted in April, 2007 is shaping up to be a better year for music than 2006. By this point last year, I was awash in disappointment after disappointment, and the only two albums I really loved—Belle & Sebastian’s The Life Pursuit and Secret Machines’ Ten Silver Drops—turned out to be the only albums I loved for the entire year. (If only I’d heard Midlake or the Little Ones sooner…) This year I’ve got three contenders for best of the year so far, and those albums that did disappoint were still less disappointing than those of 2006. For whatever that’s worth.

Check back in a couple hours and I’ll have the first installment of the week—the best of April–June.

New Country

This was what I carried with me into new country, an instinctive simplicity, a thoughtless idealism. It was the first time, moving from one place to another, that I hadn't expected something better of the new country than I had found in the old, that I was prepared for disappointment. It was the first time, too, that I was not disappointed.

—Graham Greene, Journey without Maps