Of Montreal, "Gallery Piece"

The second of my not-really-new new acquisitions this past weekend was Of Montreal's Skeletal Lamping. Listened to it at the gym, so I missed quite a bit of Kevin Barnes's overnuanced oversharing in the lyrics. For its purposes of the moment, it was a sexy disco record.

One song did, however, thematically jump out at me: "Gallery Piece," a list of demands ranging from the suggestive to the unsettling, the physical to the psychological, all in the name of possessing the desired other, body and mind and soul but mostly body. ("I wanna be your what's happening" the most endearing of the lot, "I wanna be your only friend" the most disturbed; and that they're back-to-back lines is kind of a problem.) In Barnes's unhinged passion he is not unlike Levi Stubbs in "Bernadette," in whose name love is the drug and he needs to score. That Barnes and Stubbs couldn't be more dissimilar in every other measure only underscores how universal the pains and problems of love are, including the confusing of a beloved with a possession to be desired and ultimately owned.

Brian Wilson, "Going Home"

Last August, Brian Wilson released a new CD, That Lucky Old Sun, that completely eluded my radar. Indeed, when a friend urged me to check it out a week or two ago, I assumed it was brand new.

So I'm listening to it today, impressed with Wilson's lingering tastefulness in melody and arrangement and thinking there's quite a bit of Randy Newman influence. But there is a wall between me and Brian Wilson, and that wall is Southern California.

Wilson and his Beach Boys brethren kind of crystallized a sun-sweetened SoCal aesthetic, a life of girls girls girls and fun fun fun - and I have never felt that carefree anywhere, least of all L.A., in whose Orange County shadows I lived for one very confusing year at the turn of the millennium. There are many ways to apprehend L.A. - Wilson's surf fantasia, Jim Morrison's narcissistic and violent nightmare images, War's unmeltable melting pot of a ghetto, Van Halen's glittery unreal parade - and my own experience was one of bland sunniness, unmerging cars ridden solo, gated communities, parties where your value is gauged by what you're carrying, but for all of that, a place to buckle down and ambitiously get things done.

My year behind the Orange Curtain remains an anomaly in my life, a chapter that doesn't seem to fit in my book. So hearing songs like "Going Home" that celebrate L.A. is always a faintly dissociative experience for me, and to hear an entire album of same far more so. It's a beautiful album - but it'd be even more beautiful if I got it.

Adele, "Chasing Pavements"

The Grammys have come and gone, and today I find myself lacking a single important moment to share with people. The performances were nice, and in some cases quite good (Allen Toussaint and the New Orleans brass line that followed Lil Wayne and Robin Thicke would have stolen the show had we not had to wait 3 hours to get to them, but that's just my Toussaint's worth), but at no point did my jaw drop with a sense of "this is where it's at."

Indeed, the dissolution of monoculture in popular music suggests that there is no "where it's at" anymore: dozens if not hundreds of artists are where it's at for myriad microcultures throughout America and the world. So one might well ask if the Grammys really serve a purpose anymore.

But to wonder about that too much is to take away from some undeniably great music that was made in 2008. Coldplay's spirited take on the Song of the Year-winning "Viva la Vida" is but one example. And I came to appreciate the voices of Sugarland's Jennifer Nettles and neophyte warbler "Dude, you're gettin'" Adele, even if I wasn't so warm to their material.

Adele, the Best New Artist winner (and thus new curse-bearer) is an interesting case. She seems her generation's heir to the throne of Alison Moyet, though surely with some awareness of the current Corrine-Colbie-Feist crop of songbirds. I'd bet she's ridden down Tanita Tikaram avenue a few times too. She's got a fabulous husk to her voice and knows the value of restraint with it, and in her humble Grammy acceptance speech, she came across as sweet and grounded, the kind of person you'd expect to see cast as the understanding best friend of a just-coming-out gay teen in an indie British dramedy. I hope she records much more - and maybe I'll come around to changing my mind on "Chasing Pavements."

Which is not to be confused with the saga of my freelance-writing career, "Chasing Payments."

Fleet Foxes, "White Winter Hymnal"

The granddaddy of alt-weeklies, New York's Village Voice, is currently conducting its annual Pazz & Jop survey of music critics' favorite albums and singles of the past year. I have participated the past five years - but I'm not submitting a ballot this year. It would be an unfair vote; I simply didn't listen to enough new music to have informed opinions on what the cream of the crop truly was, nor could I even come up with 10 albums I could recommend without reservations.

But if I were casting a ballot this year, I'd include a band I've only now heard in the new year, courtesy of a new friend. Fleet Foxes are a Seattle band whose music has the barren-cathedral hollowness of My Morning Jacket and the close vocal harmonies of early Crosby, Stills & Nash. There's an astonishing beauty to "White Winter Hymnal" that makes it easy to ignore the unsettling lyrics ("red as strawberries in summertime" is far too pretty to describe a head falling to the ground and turning the snow red with blood).

The rest of the Fleet Foxes album is quite good too, and is getting plenty of critical love from the tastemakers of the blogosphere. I don't think they'll miss my P&J vote.

Bruce Springsteen, "A Night With the Jersey Devil"

Some post-Devil's Night fun:

"On a stormy night in 1735, Mother Leeds gave birth to her 13th child. The child was born normal, but transformed into a creature with hooves, a horse's head, bat wings, and a forked tail. He inhabits the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey."

Where Bruce Springsteen tells a good old-fashioned ghost story. Nice work from a guy whose impulses are impeccable. And really: Does anyone have any business looking as good at 59 as Bruce does? Don't know what he's doing, but he must be living right.

PS: Please vote smart tomorrow, everybody.

Raphael Saadiq, "Love That Girl"

I still visit record stores once in a while, but I don't often buy CDs in them anymore - usually only when I'm salivating for a brand-new release or buying birthday and holiday gifts. But I scored two great new ones this week, giving me reason to think I may be able to compile a Top 10 list of the best albums of '08 after all.

The Jefferson Starship, for whom my longtime love and appreciation are well documented, have their first new release in years, Jefferson's Tree of Liberty. It's a collection of mostly covers, many with folksy or political (or both) vibes, with the Weavers as Paul Kantner's avowed inspiration. The selections include the nicely obscure ("Santy Anno"), the familiar to folkies ("I Ain't Marching Anymore"), and one undeniable classic (Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom," which benefits here from thrilling harmony vocals from David Freiberg and new Starship passenger Cathy Richardson). I'm glad to see Kantner having fun again.

But even better - and completely on another corner of the musical map - is The Way I See It, the latest album from former Tony! Toni! Tone! and Lucy Pearl member Raphael Saadiq. His Way is straight-up Motown this time around, full-on retro, smartly written and sweetly sung. It's not as calculatedly dated as a Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings record; neophyte Ryan Shaw actually makes for a better reference point. Felix Hernandez (of local Rhythm Revue fame) should be rushing to add the colorful Saadiq to his radio playlist, as should all the U.K. purveyors of Northern Soul (a term I only fuzzily understand, genre-wise). Check out the Temptations-worthy "Love That Girl" and tell me I'm right.

Bill Popp, "Stone to Throw"

I was talking the other day about Jim Croce having pop success without looking like a pop star, and how we don't have the benefit of that today. Here's a present-day example: Bill Popp has been shuffling around in indieland for quite some time, creating concise power-pop nuggets that ring nicely in the ear. But he's an older guy who looks more like Matt Pinfield than a Jonas brother, so our music media have no use for him.

And that's a damn pity, because his new album, My Lonely Mind, is a treat from nearly start to finish. The vocals don't soar, but they hang on for the ride just well enough - perhaps mid-'70s George Harrison tunes like "You" make for a good reference point. The music is immediate, catchy; and the lyrics reflect the confidence of a guy who's old enough to not have time for indecision. It's the sound of someone getting what he wants, or at least getting on the path to that. I haven't recommended much new music on this blog, but I'm recommending this album now. Check it out at CDBaby (I'm partial to "Heartbeat," "Garden Wall," and "Love Many, Trust Few," myself). And since none of those are up on YouTube yet, here's an earlier effort from him: 1996's "Stone to Throw."

You're welcome.

PS: I've been thinking tonight's VP debate is going to make me very, very sad.

Glen Campbell, "Sing"

In theory I really love the new album from Glen Campbell, in which he's re-recorded 10 mostly modern-rock songs to introduce himself to a new generation of music listeners. Practice tells another story: His performance of Travis's "Sing" on Jimmy Kimmel Live! was a bad call. The song isn't terribly good to begin with - and I am a Travis fan - and Campbell doesn't bring anything new to its arrangement or give an especially effective delivery. Only capability, and that's not enough. Is it he who's missed the point here, or me? I'll check out the rest of the album and report back.

I hope I like it. Campbell has long been an underrated interpreter, and he was one of the very first musicians I knew by name as a child. (I remember my brother at age 4 doing an impersonation of him in his variety-show days: "Hi, I'm Glen Campbell, and I'm so happy I could drop a log!") "Rhinestone Cowboy" and "Southern Nights" are among my earliest musical memories. But as regards the present material, I've been thinking that I'd much rather have heard him sing the Carpenters' "Sing." But not Annie Lennox's "Sing."

Tocque Deville, "Obama, Please Don't Suck"

A humble supplication from one enterprising singer-songwriter/YouTube videographer to the presumptive next President, whose entreaty I share. Barack Obama - and Joe Biden - Please Don't Suck. I'm even overlooking that FISA thing. (For now.)

Hat tip to Jim of Borrowed Suits for cluing me in to this.

Katy Perry, "I Kissed a Girl"

Fuck you, Katy Perry.

Seriously. F-U-C-K Y-O-U.

A formerly contemporary-Christian artist called Katy Perry has just scored the 1,000th #1 hit of the rock era with "I Kissed a Girl", an obnoxious, braying Pink-ish rocker about, well, kissing a girl. Not in the sense of coming out of the closet, mind you, or even in the sense of poking fun at guys for being unappreciative of women (as Jill Sobule did with her far more clever song of the same title a dozen or so years ago), but of manipulatively turning her boyfriend on by playing into some tired old tropes. Fuck that gay shit, but two chicks—that's hot, man! You can almost smell the Cro-Magnons as they give each other fist bumps when this comes on at some trashy strip club.

In the video, Katy pets her pussycat (wow, subversive and subliminal!) and sings of getting tipsy enough to suck cherry Chap Stick off another girl's lips ("I hope my boyfriend don't mind it," she adds with a Hilton-worthy wink; and no, that's not a compliment to her). Of course, the video ends with her realizing it was all a dream, from which she wakes next to said boyfriend, safely straight, safely normal. She likes it because she doesn't have to apprehend the reality of it.

Faux lesbianism is antifeminist, it's tedious, and it sets the real gay-rights movement back a few steps every time it rears its vapidly giggling head. It's the exact opposite of what Pride is all about, and I'm going to scream every time I hear it this weekend. Katy Perry, you suck, and I hope you call your next inane song "I Shoved a Stick of Dynamite Up My Hoo-Ha." I'd like it!

Hercules and Love Affair, "Blind"

It's way too hard to keep up with the interesting developments in music today -- mostly because pop radio as we know it now keeps up with mostly the uninteresting developments. Ever since the Stylus Singles Jukebox, for whom I was once a pop-singles reviewer, ended its fine run, I've struggled to find new stuff that really clicks with me.

Fortunately, it still happens. I became aware of "Blind" by Hercules and Love Affair earlier this spring through the invaluable I Love Music message board, but I didn't get around to listening to it until iTunes offered it up as a freebie a few weeks ago. In the ILM discussion, I couldn't escape one smart-aleck's reposted comment from the iTunes boards: that "it sounds like an old man moaning in pain because his hip broke in the middle of a nightclub. And as he falls, someone plays the trumpet."

It's funny because it's true! The lead vocals, supplied by Antony (he of the Johnsons), do indeed connote equal amounts of early morning's aging and late mourning's pain; I found myself thinking about the scenes in Studio 54 in which an old woman pranced joylessly about the floor. (No, I don't mean Liza Minnelli; and no, I don't mean Truman Capote.) "Blind" is evocative and open to interpretation, but for me, it's about the conundrum of aging as lived out on the dance floor. Can you be too old to dance in public? Can you be too old to have fun? I imagine Madonna makes a point of not listening to stuff like this.

At any rate, it's a hypnotic and dynamic groover, easily one of the best and most interesting tracks I've heard in 2008, and I'm glad the iTunes tastemakers thought so too.

Jason Mraz w/ Colbie Caillat, "Lucky"

It was a pleasant surprise, to say the least, to see California’s willingness to not merely recognize but legalize same-sex marriages, and I was actually kind of afraid to say anything about it yesterday lest some last-minute legal challenge defer us once again. I understand that it's still a subject of debate for many, but at least it’s not the wedge issue it was in ’04. No one will accuse me or those I love of risking things for Obama.

My own proximity to marriage amounts to buying the Brooklyn Bridge — I’ll never get married, you know that’s not my scene — but I’m enough of a sap that I sometimes fantasize about having a Big Day and about being able to say and sing in full honesty and security, as Jason Mraz and his duet partner Colbie Caillat do on this new track, “Lucky I'm in love with my best friend. Lucky to have been where I have been. Lucky to be coming home again.”

Mraz, the writer of those words, is a wise man, a guru in a skateboarder’s body, a Bodhisattva with bedhead, and he deserves better on the charts and in the hearts than he’s gotten so far from the pop cognoscenti. He's just the kind of cornball we need, and I've been thinking We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things. will be my #1 album of 2008 — and "Lucky" is my pride anthem of now.