Olden Oldies

In Sean Wilsey's brilliant and exhilarating memoir, Oh! The Glory of It All, there's a passage wherein Sean and his high-school chums -- tucked away in a bucolic Italian town -- dance to all that is available to them, which is next to nothing: 1950s bubble gum and early '60s pop. He specifically cites the horrific Cyrkle tune (penned by Paul Simon) "Red Rubber Ball." I'd like to note that there are actually two rubber-ball songs from that era, and that they both suck. The aforementioned song contains the line, "The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball," while the Bobby Vee tune goes, "Like a rubber ball, I'll come bouncing back to you." Great, so one's chorus conjures an apocalyptic dawn and the other a jaunty stalker.

In the Glory passage to which I refer, Wilsey and his friends -- due to isolation and circumstance -- find a way to embrace the song. But it reminded me that there are certain periods of music to which I can't quite relate.

During my more fervent record-hunting days, I picked up a lot of early- and mid-'60s records featuring clean-cut bands with mop tops and V-neck sweaters. Most of the album covers look the same, with bouquets of men in various arrangements. In my youthful ignorance and curiosity, and in pre-Internet and YouTube days, the only way to determine who was better between Jay and the Americans and Jay and the Techniques was to actually purchase the albums. How else to determine that The Turtles were a lesser beast than The Byrds? In the end, I bought them all: Herman's Hermits, Beau Brummels, Manfred Mann, Gerry and the Pacemakers. And as hard as I tried to embrace songs such as "I Like It" or "I'm Into Something Good," the music felt different from The Stones, The Small Faces, The Kinks, or the endless garage, soul and psych LPs that I'd track down later. What it felt like was my parents' music.

Why does one sound constitute a generational divide, while another lights pathways between them? Why have I kept my father's Neil Young albums while bringing the Chad Mitchell Trio LPs to Goodwill? I suppose we could talk about the timelessness of certain sounds, but then someone else might consider The Beatles outdated. Or grunge. What about Hank Williams, Julie London and Frank Sinatra? And what is it about certain music that makes it feel not only bygone but also powerless and small? No matter how large an artist loomed in the past, it's as if they can't crawl out of the speakers in the modern age without the conspicuous, killjoy, effacing tag of "golden oldies."

For a second, our "parents' music" might make us feel youthful, or perhaps affectionate with remembrances. But there's a joylessness that seeps in once the moment has been drained of nostalgia. I think the unease is created by a sense that not everything other people make -- or that we make -- will be loved, or will even last; it's impermanent. Our own dismissal of the past is merely a foreshadowing of future disappearances. I suppose, what we deem as "parents' music" depends what we're willing to let go of and leave behind. In other words, some crap -- and I use that term in a wholly subjective sense -- just isn't going to stick around.

So, while there's plenty of our families' music that we've assimilated into our own collections and hearts, what music is so confounding and unrelatable as to be called "parents' music?"

Lastly, and just for fun, here are the dreaded "red rubber ball" tunes. Warning: Both will stick in your head:

-- Carrie Brownstein

12:55 AM ET | 01-13-2009 | permalink

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Five For Friday

Garotas Suecas "Nao Espere Por Mim"

Garotas Suecas are playing tonight in NYC and have a few more shows in the US. Check out their tour dates here.

Os Mutantes "Panis Et Cirenses"

Gal Costa "Divino Maravilhoso"

The Count Five "Psychotic Reaction"

The Seeds "Pushin Too Hard"

-- Carrie Brownstein

11:58 AM ET | 01- 9-2009 | permalink

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Garotas Suecas

For the past few days, I've been in New York City. Last night, I went over to Williamsburg to see a friend's boyfriend's band play a free show at a small club called Zebulon. I liked the space immediately: low light, low stage, a wide-open floor in which to see the music, a Fellini film being projected on the wall, and reggae music courtesy of the DJ. After the boyfriend's band (American Tenants) played, there were mumblings that the next act was a fantastic garage band from Brazil. I had every intention of heading back over the bridge, but I took one look at the Welcome Back, Kotter appearance of the guitarist and decided to stick around.

The band is called Garotas Suecas, and I urge you to remember the name. Within two songs, I went from sitting at a table nodding my head to the front row -- only about eight Brooklynites were willing to dance -- at which point I became that person standing in front of the lead singer basically losing my mind. I am 34 years old. It has literally been a decade since I went up to a stage, closed my eyes, danced like a fool and never wanted the moment to end. All I kept thinking was that I wished everyone I knew could witness this show.

Garotas Suecas has six members: five boys and a girl. I call them boys and girls because their ages range from 19 (the drummer) to 24 (the singer). The musicianship in the band far exceeds most groups you'll witness these days, but not in a showy, wanky, excessive way -- in the way you'd imagine having your jaw drop at the sight of the Hi Rhythm Band or The Jackson 5 in their heyday. Yet more than the band members' ability to riff, pound or harmonize is the way they allow themselves to be consumed by the music they're playing. They travel somewhere during the songs, unafraid to leave the audience or the room, which leaves two options for the listeners: Get left behind or go along. Garotas Suecas shouldn't merely be listened to or witnessed; they should be absorbed.

So what's the sound? In their words: garage/soul/rock. Yes, they'll remind you of Os Mutantes and the like, but Garotas Suecas is more revelation than resurrection.

Check out the band's MySpace page for tour dates and information.

Listen to "Eu"

Listen to "Bugalu"

-- Carrie Brownstein

12:36 PM ET | 01- 6-2009 | permalink

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Dance This Mess Around

Let's have the first post of 2009 be about dance. Though I couldn't quite get it together on New Year's Eve to put my dancing shoes on, I did hear stories from friends, all of whom told tales of professional, semi-pro and amateur DJs whose one goal was to get people out onto the floor and make sure they stayed there.

My history with impromptu dance parties -- in my opinion, the best kind -- goes back to Olympia, Wash. Usually, there was only one turntable and a small stack of records courtesy of whoever lived in the house or apartment. The time it took for the DJ (and I use this term in the loosest sense) to take one record off and put another one on was when we all took a moment to catch our breaths. Hardly anyone populated the edges of the floor; you were sucked into the movement by force, even if dancing meant merely flailing about or continuing your conversation. Everything occurred in the center. We danced to garage, mod and punk -- it was all about the guitar buzz and the foot-stomp, our form reckless and amateur. The two songs I recall boosting the collective enthusiasm were The Who's "My Generation" and "London Calling" by The Clash.

One specific dance party I remember occurred after my band played a show in Syracuse, N.Y. In a rare moment of willingness, we followed some students to a house party. There, we sipped cheap alcohol in plastic cups (fill a cup with vodka, add just enough soda to turn it brown), raided cheese plates, and sat on carpeted stairs -- the kind where you make a mental note to wash whatever pants you're wearing later. I don't know if anything was playing on the stereo; perhaps it was one of those mid-'90s small-town indie bands whose music you could knock over with a feather. Just when we were on the verge of leaving, my bandmate Janet found the record shelves, grabbed the first B-52's album and put on "Rock Lobster." Within seconds, the party shifted from awkward clusters to bold comets -- strange how noise can transmogrify a room.

Recently, a friend called me and said that some of our cohorts might be taking over a bar for the night, and that we'd take turns playing records. I immediately started going through stacks of 45s. With only my dogs in the room, I'd put on a record and try to gauge whether the song was danceable. Was the song's effect immediate enough? Was the intro too long? Was it too fast or slow? Did it have an unwieldy breakdown that would confound? I pulled out all of my soul, R&B and blues records first. But I also wanted to throw in some '80s and garage tunes. Then I wondered if consistency of genre was important. Worst of all, what song might become the dreaded Zamboni? You know, the one that clears the floor.

I'm not a DJ, so most of my dance-music experience has been as a participant. I'll dance to almost anything as long as I'm not the only one on the floor. I'll stop dancing if the song is too cheesy, too fast or just one that I can't stand. Company B's "Fascinated"? Sure. UB40's "Red Red Wine"? No thanks.

So, what are some of your favorite dance-party moments? What songs get you onto the floor? Conversely, what song will make you leave?

-- Carrie Brownstein

5:13 PM ET | 01- 5-2009 | permalink

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New Year's Resolutions

The comma key fell off of my MacBook Pro. Thus, my first resolution is to regain easy access to commas in 2009. Trust me that each comma in this post was a pain in the ass to type. Remember when people used to have to write out commas by hand? Not as laborious as the ampersand, but still.

Rein in my love affair with Facebook. Yes, we're still in the honeymoon phase, but I'd rather do the preemptive break-up than end up hurt and rejected. A few months ago, Facebook membership among my friends reached a Gladwellian tipping point. A lot of people who would theretofore never have considered joining a social-networking site caved in, shed their mistrust of visibility and nostalgia, and embraced the concept wholeheartedly. For the two Monitor Mix readers who are not on Facebook, think of it like this: Do you ever wonder what the guy you sat next to in high-school math class is doing? Right now? Well, Facebook answers that question. He is doing his laundry. Yes, it's that exciting. My highest Facebook achievement to date entails a mobile photo upload of a Gresham police officer issuing me a speeding ticket. But I actually do love the site for making sense of all of the disparate groups of friends I have around the world, gathering them in a single virtual sphere, and making my relationship with them present instead of past-tense. Facebook has also become a repository for our old photos -- the pre-digital ones -- creating a fluid historical space, linking one music scene to another, charting one decade's transformation into the next, illuminating a generation of citizens' effect on their predecessors, and acting as a simultaneous artifact and living museum. So, for the most part, Facebook has been a positive, sometimes exciting enterprise. Yet over the holidays, I found myself discussing Facebook at parties, which gave me pause. Here I was, in person with my friends, talking about our virtual friendship. Then, another friend of mine sent me a note that read, "Wow, you are taking this Facebook thing seriously." My skepticism was reborn.

Avoid free shows and spend money on worthy bands. The other night, I saw a Swedish performer called The Tallest Man On Earth perform for free at Rom Tom's. After reading a glowing preview of the show in our local weekly, I decided to be spontaneous and head out for the night. I was shocked to pull up to the bar and see a line around the block -- SXSW- or CMJ-style. Apparently, Portlanders will attend anything that allows them to spend more money on alcohol by spending less on art. And that is a shame, because the self-proclaimed Swedish Dylan was a highly contrived act with a huge audience. So in 2009, I want to seek out more live music -- and not just when it's free or easy or convenient, but when it's likely to be both inspiring and edifying.

Additionally: Be patient, read and write more, drink less soda pop, continue to volunteer, and be appreciative of what I have.

Please feel free to share your own resolutions for 2009.

And, lastly, thanks for being a part of Monitor Mix.
Happy New Year.

-- Carrie Brownstein

11:02 PM ET | 12-30-2008 | permalink

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Looking Forward

As some of you may know -- or perhaps you read about us in the national news! -- Portland recently went through Arctic Blast 2008. But if you watched even a few minutes of our gleeful local newscasts, you would realize that it should have been called Snowgasm. The newscasts interrupted everything short of Blazers games, snow-plowing over (someone's) daytime favorites with callous, foreboding comments like, "You'll be able to catch Days Of Our Lives at... 3:05 a.m." When someone on TV tossed in a Hurricane Katrina comparison, I felt doomed, but only in the karmic sense.

For a few days, most of us were stuck indoors with only foot power to rely on. Then, once adult vs. child sledding lost its luster and the novelty of cross-country skiing in our yards went from cool to embarrassing ("Need anything at Trader Joe's?" I was asked, more than once), Portlanders braved the streets in their cars and said to hell with cabin fever. Eight rental DVDs later, the low point being House Bunny, I too was on the road.

Now, thankfully, we have put this local tragedy behind us. All we're left with is rain in the forecast -- no one here is stupid enough to complain about this yet, but give it a few days -- and dirty, slushy snow. Imagine living inside a week-old Coke Slurpee, and you get the idea.

I should add that the new Bon Iver Blood Bank EP was the perfect soundtrack to the snow. A less welcome guest arrived in the form of an email from a publicist with this asinine information:

Even celebrities are being hit hard by the current economic crisis. Hollywood.com asked the stars how they plan on getting creative during a Recession Christmas and this is what they told us: Kate Hudson: "It's a really weird time, and everyone is feeling it. This year I'm doing these great big knitted gifts." Jim Carrey: "I'm bailing out the economy. No one's getting anything. Isn't that enough, to bail out the economy?" Gabrielle Union: "I told my family, I said, 'Look, I'm a black actress in a bad economic time. You're getting my love."

I sincerely hope that the stars had a Merry Christmas, and the same goes for you.

But now we must look to 2009, and to the pressure of New Year's Eve. Let's all do something that both encapsulates the previous year and thrusts us into the new one with providence. No pressure. Personally, I begin planning with friends about a week in advance, discussing big, lofty ideas: dance or dinner parties, shows, etc. By the 31st, however, I'm exhausted from the pressure and end up home at 12:02 a.m., if I go out at all. So, what are your plans?

Someone pointed out that 2009 is the year of Monitor Mix. In roman numerals, MMIX = 2009. Indeed it does. With that in mind, my next post will discuss New Year's Resolutions. But for now, I'll leave you with words from a Portland bumper sticker that I saw yesterday: If you lived in your heart, you'd be home now.

What a horrible way to end a post, with you stuck inside your chest cavity. Sorry.

-- Carrie Brownstein

11:48 PM ET | 12-23-2008 | permalink

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Might As Well Jump (Musical Disasters)

Jumping the shark is a colloquialism used by TV critics and fans to denote that point in a TV show or movie series' history where the plot veers off into absurd story lines or out-of-the-ordinary characterizations, particularly for a show with falling ratings apparently becoming more desperate to draw viewers in. In the process of undergoing these changes, the TV or movie series loses its original appeal. Shows that have "jumped the shark" are typically deemed to have passed their peak. The phrase refers to a scene in a three-part episode of the TV series, Happy Days, first broadcast on September 20, 1977. In the third of the three parts of the "Hollywood" episode, Fonzie (Henry Winkler), wearing swim trunks and his trademark leather jacket, jumps over a penned-in shark while water skiing. Even before "jumping the shark" was employed as a pop culture term, the episode in question was cited many times as an example of what can happen to otherwise high-quality shows when they stay on the air too long in the face of waning interest. The infamous scene was seen by many as betraying Happy Days' 1950s setting by cashing in on the 1970s fads of Evel Knievel and Jaws. -Wikipedia

Television has "jumping the shark" as the term for a show that has lost its way. Film fans and critics mention disasters such as Heaven's Gate or Waterworld, but what expression or point of reference does the music industry have for the misguided or profligate artist?

Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music immediately comes to mind as on example. And up until its release this year, certainly Guns N' Roses' Chinese Democracy was the metonym for artistic stumbling, self-doubt, extravagance, and abject failure. Curiously, now that the album is available, Chinese Democracy's metaphorical potency has greatly diminished, though I have a feeling it will become a term used to describe similar journeys or missteps. (Whether there will ever be another misstep so drawn out and expensive is another question entirely.)

Yet one reason that Chinese Democracy might not be the best example, and why it might be disqualified as music's equivalent of "jumping the shark," is that the album was not released during GNR's heyday. Part of the reason Heaven's Gate and Waterworld were so symbolically disastrous was that they occurred during the heights of director Michael Cimino's and actor Kevin Costner's respective careers. In other words, Chinese Democracy stands in for a musical story with which we were intrigued up until we knew the ending (ultimately, a disappointment), but it still doesn't represent a major faltering in the midst of a career. So, what does? And what musical mistake was so balls out treacherous as to forever become the measuring stick for balls out treacherousness?

And I'm not talking about Dylan going electric. I'm talking about errors and gaffes that even with time don't reveal themselves to be secretly brilliant.

For instance, what about U2's Pop album and the consequent Popmart tour? Garth Brooks' alter ego Chris Gaines? Kiss without the make-up? Springteen's "57 Channels (And Nothing's On)?

Or, perhaps music fans are more forgiving. The medium allows, even exalts, transformations. After all, we revel in declaring the death of one musical genre or artist only to stage a resurrection later (then pat ourselves on the back for never having lost the faith.) Maybe music doesn't have a "jump the shark" parity because it requires those acts of daring. And as long as the artist come back on the next album or tour with redemption at their side, all is forgiven.

So, even if we can't find an exact matching term for what constitutes a musical embarrassment, let's at least try. Feel free to share music moments or albums so off base that you think they could or should become an expression that embodies everything similar that follows in their wake.

-- Carrie Brownstein

1:18 PM ET | 12-19-2008 | permalink

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Yes, We Know It's Christmas

It's snowy here in Portland, and the power is out at my house. Thus, I've taken Monitor Mix HQ over to a friend's house (thanks, Corin) in order to post these Christmas videos.

Usually, when I think about Christmas music, I think of the day after Halloween, when certain retail stores start piping the merriment through tiny, tinny speakers. I look down and my hand has formed a fist, and after a few minutes, I can taste the enamel in my mouth from all the teeth grinding. No wonder I haven't been grocery-shopping in weeks. Basically, from Nov. 1 until Dec. 26, I wear my night guard and wake up on a drool-soaked pillow thanks to lyrics like, "City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style" and "Fa la la la la la LA LA la." No, I'm not Scrooge; I just know we can do better in terms of Christmas music. And we have.

Below are some of my favorite holiday tunes.

Wham!, "Last Christmas." For those of you too young to remember, there was a time when George Michael (and even Andrew Ridgeley) were talented, sexy and straight. Sure, I had a picture of them on my bedroom wall from Bop magazine where they are giving each other piggyback rides on a beach, but that just meant they were best friends. It also meant that I would get to date one of them, and my best friend would date the other. I still love this song.

Madonna, "Santa Baby." Okay, this is not one of my favorite Christmas songs, but it makes all of the other ones in this post sound better. When I was a pre-teen, my mother actually had to console me over the fact that I would likely never meet Madonna.

Ramones, "Merry Christmas Baby (I Don't Want To Fight Tonight)." One of my all-time favorites. As far as I'm concerned, the Ramones had very few missteps. Plus, this song carries a profound double-meaning that speaks to wishing for peace in places far outside our own domestic domain.

David Bowie and Bing Crosby, "Little Drummer Boy." The interaction between Bowie and Crosby in the first few minutes of this video is almost as good as the song itself. I think this might constitute one of the best duets of all time. Bowie looks incredibly handsome.

Bob Geldof, "Feed the World." The best part of this video trying to identify all the superstars in it. For some of these artists, this song might be the last great thing they ever did. (And certainly the best they ever looked. Sting and Phil Collins, I'm talking to you.) Paul Weller looks like a supermodel, Bono reminds you why U2 is still head and shoulders above most bands, and Boy George had yet to break the law. Most of all, the melody is fantastic.

Feel free to add your own favorites (or least favorites).

-- Carrie Brownstein

1:39 PM ET | 12-17-2008 | permalink

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Live Chat Today at 2 PM EST

It's a party line with all of your NPR faves.
We'll be talking about the listener's 25 top albums of 2008.
Please join in.

For more info, go here.

-- Carrie Brownstein

1:16 PM ET | 12-16-2008 | permalink

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2008: Time Of Songs (The Best Of The Year)

As discussed in the All Songs Considered year-end podcast, songs outshone albums in 2008. Call it a sign of the times -- the death of the album, a bad omen or just an off year -- but I found myself replaying single tunes over and over again. I'm not sure whether I like this abbreviated version of my usually completist musical affection; the stammering and stuttering of a collection of singles cohering around a playlist as opposed to the fluidity of an entire album. But I'm too busy enjoying the bits and pieces that I cobbled together from different artists to care -- at least for now.

I think if I had to pick a theme this year, it would be "teenage." The adjective might sound derogatory at first, but there's something really exciting about letting go of the self-consciousness that comes with maturity and wisdom. Not that the best songs of 2008 weren't intelligent, or that they were all made by youngsters; it's just that they weren't overly considered or contrived. And "teenage" differs from "puerile." The songs I loved weren't immature so much as immune -- inoculated from fear. Maybe this is what happens when you record in your bedroom, or you stop caring about record sales because you can never take for granted any sales at all -- but a lot of the best songs just sat there exposed, as if out on an unsteady limb.

I started off the year with an almost adolescent adoration for Ladyhawk. The band's song "S.T.H.D." remains one of my favorites from 2008. Sure, the tune conjures Sugar and Silkworm and maybe a little Screaming Trees, but it's its own force that never loses an ounce of potency. The guitar interludes come in more like scratches than solos -- which is exactly the sound you want from the Pacific Northwest.

[Listen to the track S.T.H.D from Shots]

Deerhunter, "Nothing Ever Happened." I love lopsided songs. Riff-based, almost poppy at the beginning, noisy at the end, never to return to the familiarity with which it began. The momentum in this song is not just a ride; it's an awakening.

Chad Van Gaalen, "Inside the Molecules." The first verse comes back again; a structural choice, certainly, but perhaps also a means of convincing the narrator (and thus the listener) that the song's happiness isn't fleeting.

Tapes N' Tapes, "Time of Songs." A simple song built upon a resplendent melody. By the time you near the end of the song, you realize the whole tune has been a weight that's been slowly lowered down on top of you. It always leaves me with a feeling of subtle devastation.

No Age, "Here Should Be My Home." It starts out all excited and never lets up. Sometimes an exclamation point is all you need.

Kanye West, "Love Lockdown." It's all about the snare drum in this one, used as a rudimentary but no less effective weapon.

Santogold, "Lights Out." Infectious without ever being saccharine. There's an edginess to the words that makes the whole song a little sly.

Blitzen Trapper, "Gold for Bread." I'll excuse the cleverness of the lyrics because I keep singing along.

And I'd be remiss not to mention Bon Iver. I've written about Justin Vernon on this blog before, and if I keep that up, well, it might just be awkward.

-- Carrie Brownstein

11:56 AM ET | 12-11-2008 | permalink

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