The fine line between irony and toilet humor

     Now I already know what you are thinking. What does a literary rhetorical device denoting an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually stated and a brand of off-color humor meant more to shock the viewer than make them laugh have to do with each other? And while we’re at it, just how fine a line can there be between the two of them? To which I will exclaim over how astute you are, my dear readers! I’m so glad you have asked these very pertinent questions. The answers are really quite simple when you are talking about The Magnetic Fields. In their case, irony and toilet humor are hopelessly entwined and the line between then is… well, there is no line!

     Originally hailing from Boston and releasing records since 1991 (how’d I miss out on this?), the Magnetic Fields is the satirical and oft-times amusingly vulgar troupe that is helmed by indie music mastermind Stephin Merritt. Delivering cynical, tongue-in-cheek lyrics in his distinctive deadpan bass voice, Merritt proves that he is sharp of tongue and even sharper of wit. Aside from penning the majority of the songs and serving as the primary lead singer, he is also their producer and a multi-instrumentalist. On past albums he has shared the role of lead singer with other band members and this is true of their latest offering, 2012′s Love at the Bottom of the Sea. Approximately half the album is sung by band mates Shirley Simms and Claudia Gonson, although their voices are so similar please don’t ask me who sings which song.

     Ranging from quirky synth pop with occasional industrial influences to folk-tinged rock, the band pokes fun at sex, religion, violence, and gender roles in a less than subtle fashion. Think of They Might Be Giants without the sense of childlike innocence or perhaps a mellower version of the Butthole Surfers. And with all the springy little electronic embellishments added in, Devo certainly must have been an influence to some extent. The mood of the album fluctuates between the maniacally cheerful to the endearingly despairing–with many stops along the spectrum. And Merritt goes out of his way to write songs that obscure the singer’s gender identity and sexuality, leaving the interpretation open to the audience who are free to identify with whatever orientation they choose. The result is a clever, naughty, and at times surprising album. And the songs are strong, with just enough pop appeal to keep the album afloat, and every line is delivered with a completely straight face. The real kicker though is that like Discordians and Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, you’re never fully certain whether or not they are joking with you, but you’re pretty damn sure they are laughing at you behind your back… Probably…

     Opening the album is the techno composition called God Wants Us to Wait, which flirts with industrial with its distorted tones and pulsing beats. In it a detached, rather mechanical  attitude competes with the overt sexual references sprinkled throughout the lyrics.

God Wants Us to Wait

     One of the high points of the album is the melodic Andrew in Drag, which would be downright sweet if it weren’t for a few crude but clever double entendres. The video is wonderful though and I love that they chose to feature a drag king as counterpart to Andrew’s drag queen. Be warned, this is not safe for work (mind the boobs!).

Andrew in Drag (NSFW)

     Showcasing the blackest of humors, Your Girlfriend’s Face is the height of buoyant brutality. It is probably one of the most chipper songs on the album, it focuses on a spurned lover who hires assassins to exact their revenge. It was about this time that I really started wondering just what I’d gotten myself into. Ironically, it is the song that seems to get stuck in my head the most and I have found myself randomly singing lines from it during the past week. Kind of makes me wonder what that says about me…

Your Girlfriend’s Face

     The album closes with the slow-paced, heavy-on-the-horn-section tune entitled All She Cares About is Mariachi. Employing some classic sounds from that characteristically Hispanic genre but dragging out the melody to a snail’s crawl and peppering the lyrics with peculiarly convenient rhymes, the song skirts around cute and into the just plain odd. But it is catchy, I’ll give Merritt and his cronies that much.

All She Cares About is Mariachi

     The first time I listened to this, I truly was unsure how I felt about it. After listening off and on for the last few weeks, I’m still not sure. But I’m still listening, which has got to count for something, right?

For my mother

I think it is safe to say that my mother is directly responsible for my life-long obsession with music. Unlike my father, who I came to find musical common ground with in my late teens, my mother and I were on the same page from Day One. My earliest memory of my mom is 2-year-old me getting the brilliant idea to sit on my feet while she is trying to put on my shoes on and thinking how funny this game is until she gets annoyed and pulls my feet out from under my butt (who knew she’d look for them there?). My second earliest memory of her (and years of memories after) is driving around town in the back of her car and listening to her sing along with the radio. When I was little Mom was the stay-at-home type, which made her the first line of defense against a child with ideas. Five-year-old me tended to associate her with unwanted complications to my little life like nap times, the giving and taking of TV privileges, eating vegetables, and not drawing with markers on the couch (the only time I was ever officially grounded). By default (i.e. because he wasn’t home for eight hours a day), I was a devoted daddy’s girl when I was small. Now I look back on this with the eyes of an adult and feel that this was horribly unfair to the woman who made my mac’n'cheese, took me to swim lessons, and walked home everyday from kindergarten with me. But what can you expect from a 5-year-old who knew the power of a good pout?

However, everything would quickly change when she strapped me into the back seat to trundle down the road on one errand or another and unruly child would morph into listening child and later into singing child. On these excursions the radio dial was always tuned to the Oldies Station. As a result my primal musical influences growing up were my mother’s–namely Motown, the British Invasion, Psychedelia, and Surf Rock. To this day I can’t hear the Everly Brothers’ Wake Up Little Susie or Neil Diamond’s Cherry Cherry without remembering our vehicular singalongs. You could always tell if my mother liked a song by the volume of the radio and of her voice. My mother is a born blaster, to be sure. And hopefully when she sees what I’ve dug up for her, she’ll attempt to burn out the speakers on Dad’s laptop.

But the best thing about my mother and music is that she always encouraged me to seek out the songs that sounded good to me. As I got older and began to develop my own tastes, she was always willing to give something new a listen, be it Save Ferris, NIN, or Duran Duran. She never once tried to censor or disparage my inclinations. And she was my first willing audience when I began my transformation into the music edition of Trivial Pursuit. For this, I am eternally grateful.

So now in honor of Mother’s Day and her birthday (which fell on the same day this year), here are a few of the songs that I associate with my mother and elevated volumes. Crank it up to 11, Mom! I love you!

Green Tambourine by the Lemon Pipers

To Love Somebody by the Bee Gees

Wild Thing by the Troggs – An undeniable favorite that could easily have led to scratchy speakers in more than one mini-van.

2 for 1

It has certainly been a crazy couple of weeks for me out here in Charm City. Between car accidents (without injury, thankfully), navigating between our insurance and crazy-lady-who-ran-a-red-light-and-hit-my-car’s insurance, trying to get our car fixed, and dealing with the fatigue that inevitably sets in after the shock wears off, I’ve been hard-pressed to convince myself to write. My head felt like it was packed with cotton all last week. I could barely put together two brain cells outside of work and I finally had to just put off last week’s entry. Which is a shame because I am literally overflowing with fodder for album reviews and recommendations from all the amazing music I picked up on Record Store Day (my new favorite holiday). So to make it up to you, I’m going to treat you to a two-for-one deal. It’s a double-headliner tonight folks, so sit back and enjoy!

First up is a beauty of a London indie rock band called Bombay Bicycle Club. Their new album, A Different Kind of Fix, is a satisfying collection of songs that call to mind the vocal harmonies of Fleet Foxes and the quiet intensity of Radiohead’s In Rainbows, while presenting something instantly more radio-friendly. The over-all feel of the album is even and low-key, but not for a lack of energy–more for lack of variation. For the most part the flow is steady and constant, without major highs or lows, but there is a whole lot more going on below the surface than you might be conscious of on your first listen. Each song is rife with great bass lines that propel you through the track list and keep the fire burning bright. Jack Steadman’s vocals are velvety and understated with an occasional outburst of discord that is reminiscent of Robin Pecknold without dredging up the sense of tight-lipped dread that seems to accompany all of his songs.

Beggars is a great example of Bombay Bicycle Club’s ability to mimic Fleet Foxes’s harmonies, but with an instrumentation and a beat that manages to hit a sweet spot that the other band never quite seems to achieve. Here’s a pretty little live performance they did last August that while done well, lacks the punch of the studio version. Still it is a great showcase for their talent in an off the cuff environment (that thankfully, is not filmed by an amateur with an iPhone), so it is definitely worth a look.

Beggars

My favorite song off the album is called Your Eyes, and it is everything that I love about this band: Suren de Saram’s vigorous drumming strategically building the energy of the composition, the rollicking guitar of Jamie McColl, and Steadman’s rather tremulous voice rising above it all. But it is the driving, relentless bass work of Ed Nash that really makes the song for me. I have always been a sucker for an intricate bass line and this song has one of the better ones I’ve heard in quite a while. The result is an addictive song that gets your blood flowing with every listen. Here again I found a decent live version of the song which someone was kind enough to film without shaking their phone around until my eyes watered. I’d love to see these guys live, but if you prefer to hear the version off the album then you can find it here.

Your Eyes

The second half of this double feature is devoted to an intriguing singer-songwriter named Eleanor Friedberger. Perhaps better known for her work with her brother Matthew Friedberger and their experimental indie collaboration called Fiery Furnaces, Eleanor released her first solo album, Last Summer, in July of 2011. Throughout the album, she seems to waver up and down a spectrum with her exploratory music roots at one end and a more traditional brand of folk pop at the other. She alternately displays an amazing pop sensibility for turning out catchy, yet deep songs, and a willingness to abandon all those tried and true song-writing rules in favor of indulging in her poetical lyrics. The result is some surprisingly catchy songs that on occasion seem to have more syllables than melody. Honestly, she appears to be the nothing less than the tuneful love child of Joanie Mitchell–the queen of the quixotic lyric– and Carole King–the supreme monarch of pop-craft. But what really clinches it for me is Friedberger’s voice, which decisively asserts her spiritual connection to Carole King (I am absolutely convinced that she would do a killer cover of I Feel the Earth Move). Her mellow alto flows throughout the album, giving everything an easy-going sheen that is evident even in her darkest songs.

In honor of her musical split personality, I present to you one example from each of her styles. First up is the superbly crafted conventional folk pop ditty, I Won’t Fall Apart On You Tonight. Here’s an acoustic live version that is a bit more minimalist than the album version, but is somehow more moving in the simple presentation of a small venue performance.

I Won’t Fall Apart On You Tonight

To contrast the polished pop glow of that first song, I present to you Friedberger’s Roosevelt Island, where she employs an almost spoken word approach to her lyrics. Placed over top a funk-inspired instrumental track, this is a prime example of the syllables and the melody not quite matching up. But while it is miles away from her more traditional compositions, it still makes for an interesting listening experience.

Roosevelt Island

It’s just not Fun anymore

Never fear, dear readers. It’s not what you think. I may be a little late posting this week, but I enjoy working on my blog too much to quit after just 1 year. This is fun.

What is no longer fun is my listening experience with a specific song. In this case, that song is We Are Young by the up until recently (for me, anyway) purely enjoyable band called Fun. As far as idealistic teenage indie pop anthems with clever drug and subtle domestic violence references go, this was pretty much the tops. I’ll admit that at the ripe old age of 31, I felt just a tad self-conscious singing along with Nate Ruess’s power ballad. But I’m not exactly ready to hang up my headphones yet and most days I still feel reasonably capable of setting the world on fire, so most of the time I just made sure my car windows were rolled up and tried not to make a spectacle of myself. It’s a good song. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it?

Well, it turns out that my enjoyment was not meant to last. Despite being a well-produced song from a talented band, I’m now finding myself reaching for that dial every time the opening lines come over the speakers. You may ask how this could be? What could sour me so towards a previously appreciated tune? Two words: viral video.

I’m sure you must have caught this about a week or so ago. The wise-acres over at Yahoo’s Sketchy Comedy took a nice song with an aesthetic video featuring the gratuitous use of slow-motion cinematography and people beating the crap out of each other and turned it into a parody that–let’s be honest here, folks–hits just a little to close to home for this 30 something. Wittily called We’re Not Young (gee, I wonder how they ever managed to come up with that creative leap?) they poke fun at the pre-mid-life existential crisis that is faced by those of us who are too old to be called teenagers but are still too young to claim the dreaded title of middle-aged. The video is filled with images of youngish people looking at their lives, wondering what the hell happened to their dreams and goals, and trying desperately to find ways to be “young” again. And well… I hate to say it, but I found myself relating to them.

Okay, you can stop snickering! I mean it! Okay… I’ll wait.

I realize this is literally the definition of a First World Problem. Where else but the Western World can a 30-year-old with a steady job and a guaranteed paycheck feel the desperate need to seek self-worth and fulfillment in an adult improv class after work? But come on and admit it. Since college ended and you took that soul-crushing job to keep Sallie Mae from collecting your student loan debt in broken kneecaps and tears, you’ve probably felt the same disillusionment. The truth can be hard to take, especially when it turns out that you’re the butt of the joke. But I have to say that it didn’t really bother me until I realized that one of their crazy ideas to reclaim their lost youth was to start a blog… Well, let’s just say that I can no longer listen to the original song without cringing just a little. Considering that front man Ruess is 30-years-old, he may be cringing a bit these days, too. Although he is a bone fide rock star, so may be not.

Anyway, here now for you listening enjoyment (or possibly to exercise your flinching reflex) are both versions of the song:

We Are Young by Fun

We’re Not Young by Yahoo’s Sketchy Comedy

Frogs and shoegazing

Little did I know when I picked up M83′s recent double album, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, that it would include the formula for human-amphibian transformation. Think I’m kidding? Well… Maybe a little, but we’ll get to that in a moment. First, let’s get some business out of the way.

This Saturday, April 21st, is Record Store Day. This is an amazing chance for every music lover in the States (as well as some places in Europe) to go out and support local businesses, local and regional music, the concept of the traditional music store (something that is in danger these days), and well… the good old-fashioned album. Plus, there are exclusive national, regional, first, and limited-run releases in honor of the occasion. What is not to love? And I am by no means encouraging you to just go browse the CDs at the big box store of your choice. No, my friends! I’m talking about a real honest to goodness record store–preferably one that is participating in the event. I will personally be wandering up and down the aisles of The Sound Garden here in Charm City. You can get all the info at the official Record Store Day site, where you can also search for a participating store near you. Mark those calendars, folks! You won’t regret it.

And now back to our original premise: frogs… in a moment…

Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming  is a gorgeous romp into the highs and lows of dreamy electro pop from one of France’s most popular exports, M83. Throughout the double disk there is a pervasive fantastical quality, only partly because of band leader Anthony Gonzalez’s exploration of his childhood and the concept of dreaming. Every song features extensive progressive layering of electronic tracks and guitar riffs. Although there are lyrics aplenty the vocals are soft–featuring muted and sometimes incoherent lyrics–that are often as not treated like just another instrument (I actually had to look them up! I’d been listening to this album for over a week before I realized I didn’t remember any of the lyrics!). And through some amazing feat, the double album is rife with infectious beats that somehow manage to lull rather than energize. Just how Gonzalez and his mates manage this trick I’m not quite sure, but it makes for a trance-inducing listening experience. With the exception of a few stronger songs on each of the disks in the form of Intro–closely followed by the stellar Midnight City–and Steve McQueen, the majority of this beautiful work is more ambient than danceable. Apparently, these are some of the prime traits of what is called shoegazing, a lesser known UK subgenre of alt rock that was pushed out of the limelight by American grunge back in the early ’90s, but that has been making inroads on American radio for the last year or so.

I’m really smitten with many of the songs featured on this album, but by far and away my favorite is Raconte-Moi Une Histoire, which translates to Tell Me a Story. This is an exploration of what dreaming is like to a child and it focuses on (you guessed it!) frogs. The song consists of a building electronic beat, layered with ethereal wordless vocals, and the voice of one child (possibly two?) speaking in English. It is truly something to behold and it made my husband laugh really hard when I played it for him. I dare you to listen to this without smiling!

Enjoy and remember to visit your favorite record store this Saturday!

 

We’re gonna rattle this ghost town

My, my, how times does fly! I have now officially been writing in this blog for a whole year. And like most good things in life, it simultaneously feels like I just started yesterday and that I have been doing this for the last twenty years or so. I still get that stupendous rush when I’m knee-deep in the creative process that I felt with my first few entries, but after the last twelve months I feel like I have really found my voice–something that simply takes time. Now this doesn’t mean that I don’t go a little crazy and revise my entries to within an inch of their little lives. Just ask my husband and he’ll tell you that I worry about the blog waaay tooo much. But even when I’m agonizing over a turn of phrase or frantically trying to select my next topic, I’m enjoying every minute of the process and I am both pleased and a little amazed that I have kept this up for this long.

When I started out on this venture, I was looking to accomplish two things: 1.) do something with my life other than work and commute, and 2.) finally write down all those little stories and memories that I am compelled to share with people whenever music is playing. I think the first of these goals has been met beautifully. I write every week that I can, miss it dreadfully when my real life intrudes, and have not-so-secretly been dreaming of leaving it all behind to write full-time. (Don’t worry, sweetie. I know that this is not an option when Sallie Mae owns my soul in exchange for grad school. But hey, I can dream, right?) And as for the second goal, well… To put it plainly, I have many more stories left to tell. I actually carry around a list of about thirty ideas for entries everywhere that I go, most of which have to do with my own experiences, and no matter how many entries I write this list never seems to get any shorter. I guess this means I should keep writing…

The one thing that I didn’t expect to happen when I started writing here was how much it would affect my music tastes. I still listen to a great variety of stuff and there still are many older bands that will always be significant to me. But my music appetite has gone from merely nibbly to positively voracious at the same time that my attention span has taken a nose dive. I’m constantly on the lookout for that next song. An album or artist probably only lasts about a week for me now. I listen to it like mad, write something up, and suddenly it is old news. I still love it and may listen again later, but it isn’t the same. I’m already on the prowl for my next target. I also constantly evaluate the things I listen to on whether or not they will make a good entry. Sometimes I wonder if it is less about the connection, the experience of listening and more about, “is this interesting enough to write about?” But I’m working on this latter problem.

And in that vein, I am going to celebrate my first big milestone with a song that I absolutely love right now, mainly because the video makes me smile and the title has my name in it. This is a sweet, goofy, and oddly uplifting video from a new band called Walk the Moon. There is so much joy in this song, the beat is infectious, and there is choreography! The lyrics, which are easy to overlook on the first few listens, have an almost sad desperation in them coupled with a fierce determination.

What do you know? This house is falling apart
What can i say? This house is falling apart
We got no money, but we got heart
We’re gonna rattle this ghost town
This house is falling apart

We may be going down, but damn it! We’ll make it count. Enjoy!

Walk the Moon – Anna Sun

This magic moment

Picture if you will, a standing-room only club circa 2005. The walls are painted black, the house lights are up, the shadowy stage is empty except for a collection of glittering instruments resting on music stands, and the room is packed to the gills with anxious spectators all waiting for their free rock show to begin. The crowd is restless from standing outside in the pleasant Arizona spring for the last several hours, jockeying for line position and waiting for the doors to open. The buzz of not-so-hushed conversation fills the air. As the clock ticks its way past 7pm, the noise level rises.

No longer content to stand and wait for the opening act to take the stage, the questions begin to circulate. When are they starting? What’s the hold up? (It is amazing how impatient people can be when waiting for something they didn’t pay a cent for.) Everyone is tired and bored and ready to get the show on the road. But there are no answers from their fellow concert-goers, the occasional roadie strolling across the platform, or even from the disembodied soothing voice of a tech over the house speakers. So the assembled mass continues to stand, fidget, and stew.

Suddenly, the house lights lower and a previously unnoticed bank of televisions on the wall behind the stage dimly blinks to life. There is a sudden hush as every head turns expectantly and the whispering begins. Something is happening! Is that supposed to happen? Is this part of the show? But no… It is only a parade of music videos meant to sooth the impatient room. A collective sigh is issued and for a time it seems like this gesture of generosity on the part of the venue will fall on deaf ears.

And this, of course, is when it happens. The opening scenes of a familiar music video appear, multiplied in miniature across the many screens of the massive wall. The first acoustic guitar chords echo throughout the suddenly quiet nightclub. The first verse begins and the transfixed crowd watches the screens as if in a dream. It begins almost haphazardly, a few mumbled words here, a line hesitantly finished there. And within moments, without prompting, without orchestration, without even conscious thought, the whole room begins to sing.

Maybe it is the familiarity of a song released 9 years before? Perhaps it is the bittersweet loss of a talented singer before his genius was fully appreciated? The cause of this spontaneous musical interlude may never be explained, but no one in the crowd seems concerned. As the song progresses, the voices get louder, until the whole building echoes with a chorus 150 strong. After a few minutes, the song comes to its inevitable end and the room reverberates with a mighty cheer. Goths, punks, and even emo kids grin widely at each other. High-fives are exchanged and the overwhelming pretentiousness in the room takes a nose-dive. Peace and goodwill bubble up and overflow, leaving the room awash in positive energy. In time the opening act comes on and while they do their best to wow the room, they do not receive even half the enthusiasm inspired by this unscheduled sing-along.

Fatigued by the long hours of waiting and feeling like the headliner–a newly emerged group by the name of The Bravery–is not important enough to wait another hour for, my sister and I head towards the exit. Walking out into the cooling desert air, we take with us the memory of one musical, magical moment.

Though it does little to replicate that amazing, impromptu experience, here is the song that so inspired the crowd and myself that evening: Santeria by Sublime.

Confessions of a music snob

Have you ever had one of those moments where you unexpectedly get a good hard look at yourself? I mean a really candid look, without all those barriers and filters that we all put up each and every day between our inner selves and the outside world. Now, don’t play innocent with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about here. The kind of barriers that keep us from yelling at the barista who got our order wrong, from telling our boss what we really think of him, and from lecturing our friends on why they should convert to one of our chosen philosophies. Some may call it conscience, others may call it politeness, but it’s a survival tactic really. You know, the stuff that keeps us from being boorish and makes us suitable for civilized company. We all put up these walls, although not always consciously (and there are a few people out there who could stand to add a couple more coats of varnish to theirs–you know who you are). However, because the placement and use of these mental screens is not always premeditated, we can sometimes be shocked at what we see when they are casually swept to the side. It usually happens in an off moment, directly after you’ve opened your mouth about something. You give your opinion to your audience  and then a little voice in your head pops in and asks, “Do you really mean that?” And your answer may catch you off guard.

Today I amazed myself by having one of these moments of sudden and brutal clarity. How did I pull off such a feat, you say? Well, this morning I got the sudden urge to text an old friend and ask what her top 5 bands are right now. We live across the country from each other, are at different points in our lives, and have very different beliefs–things that in this day of rabid partisanship have been known to tear friendships apart. We have weathered a lot over the years and still share one of those close bonds that time and circumstance do not seen to touch. But lately our conversations haven’t progressed much beyond how-are-yous, happy-birthdays, and condolences. Not from lack of affection, more from lack of time. And I realized that I had no idea what she was into these days. This seemed simple enough to remedy, so I thought I’d find out. What followed was a lovely and long conversation about what she is listening to now. She dropped names, some I knew and some I did not. But on the whole, there was much we had in common and I even got a few names of artists who–from the sound of it–I should know (something I am working on rectifying, let me assure you).

I was impressed and pleased that we had so much in common musically but still had new songs to share with each other. I thought to myself, it doesn’t matter what religion she prescribes to or that she is a member of  the other political party, her music taste passes muster and that is what really matters.

That’s when it happened. That little voice in my head popped up and said, “Do you really mean that?” And I stopped… and I realized that yes, I really did mean it. And then I groaned!

When I was a teenager, I was accused by several friends of being a music snob. For me there was no worse insult, even then, but I admit now that I more than earned the title. I’ve talked about it before in previous posts, how I used to whine and moan and grimace when music I didn’t like was played in my presence. I was an awful little pain and I thought I had grown out of it. I truly did… but it seems that I was wrong. At best, I am a recovering music snob who happens to relapse every now and then. Apparently today was a relapse day. It appears that sometimes when those internal barriers come down, we find out that there was actually a second layer shielding us from ourselves.

On the bright side, I also reaffirmed that I do not need to be in the same ideological boat with someone to be their friend. I may be a music snob, but I guess it could be worse. And now while I go do some research on 12 step programs for the musically pompous, you get to see an amusing video from one of my friend’s current music picks: The Walk by Mayer Hawthorne (NSFW).

Three days from New York City

If you are anything like me, then it has probably been a lot longer than you’d like to contemplate since you’ve had a real vacation. Not the fake kind of vacation where you visit family, go to a conference, or squeeze in a little sight-seeing after a job interview. No, I mean a real vacation–when you take time off school or work, travel to a city you’ve never been to before, and go exploring. Well kids, I’m long over-due and I’m really excited to be able to say that this problem is about to be addressed. In case the entry title slipped past you, I’m going to New York City! I’ve actually never been there, my only experiences with the Big Apple being several drive-thrus (read: slowly losing my mind in stop-and-go traffic) when going back and forth between Boston and Charm City and a lay-over at JFK with a huge plaster cast on my leg (long story). Sadly, this time is still not quite ideal in that I’ll only be there for a little under 48 hours and for most of that time my poor husband will be working. But he’s made his peace with it and I’ve been busy making plans for a solo exploration of Manhattan.

I’ve decided to take a page from Anthony Bourdain and treat this like a real layover. On the advice of several people, I’m going to avoid most of the usual tourist stops. My goals are few and flexible, which I hope makes them doable:

1. Go to the New York Public Library and see the original toys owned by the original Christopher Robin of A.A. Milne fame (to make the little 5-year-old me immensely happy)

2. Get a real New York City bagel for breakfast

3. Visit Strawberry Fields in Central Park (my very first real Beatles pilgrimage! Somebody pinch me!)

4. Visit my buddy from grad school (she’s been trying to get me up here for about 2 years now. How can I refuse?)

Everything else I do will be incidental, unplanned, and hopefully delightful. I do hope that my husband will be able to pal around with me in the evenings, but I’m not holding my breath. Honestly, I’m just thrilled to be getting away from my normal life for a little while. I’m sure I’ll be exhausted when I get back, but it will be well worth it.

So now in honor of my maiden voyage to the Empire City (and for your entertainment, of course), here are my top three picks for songs about New York City. Enjoy!

First up is the impeccable Joni Mitchell and her 1969 classic, Chelsea Morning. Hailing from her second album, Clouds, this song showcases that amazing lyrical magic that Mitchell is known for and which helped to cement her reputation early on as a hit-making songwriter. Originally covered by Judy Collins in 1967–for whom it charted higher, I might add–I find that I much prefer Mitchell’s version. The combination of her simple orchestration and complicated lyrical rhythm make for a pleasant listen every time.

Next on my list is the often energetic and always eclectic Vampire Weekend with 2008′s (holy crap! Is it really that old already?) A-Punk. Their strangely obscure and at times unintelligible lyrics do in fact have something to do with New York City. And I’d like to think that the hyperactivity of this frenetic song reflects something of the city’s bustle. Either way, the video is creative and will make you smile.

And last–but certainly not least–is a little Canadian indie rock girl band called Cub that chances are you may not have ever heard of. But if you’re a nerd like me, you’re probably familiar with They Might Be Giant’s cover of their song, New York City (I know! I was as shocked to discover this as you. This is why I am not allowed to call myself a hipster). Cub was a short-lived trio from Vancouver who favored a soft brand of pop-like punk that some critics apparently dubbed “cuddlecore”. Personally, I think the name is both fitting and adorable. But what do I know? Oh well, Cub broke up in 1997, but first they made an equally cutesy video for this song in 1995. It is ’90s-tastic. Enjoy!

Wish me safe journey! I’ll try to post some pics next week.

On my radar

So the past couple weeks have been kind of a mess. Between intense 16 hour a day seminars at work, a recurring migraine that just WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE, and a bit of rather inevitable writer’s block, I’ve been hard pressed to put together the necessary brain cells for a blog post. But never fear, my dear readers for I am here. I am alive. I’m okay, I swear. Now I realize that crippling concern for my whereabouts is probably not what has been keeping you up at night, but I know that when I don’t write I start to itch–even if it doesn’t bother anyone else. Bringing to mind that ancient mystical question: If an unread blog doesn’t get updated, does anybody care? Ah well, I care. And I guess that is what matters.

For the last few days I’ve been desperately wracking my poor tender head for ideas to write about, but handy ideas have truly been feeling scarce lately. And despite a few recent purchases and quite a bit of casual listening, I wasn’t really feeling strong about much of anything musically. Or so I thought… and then the other day I got the (if not brilliant, at least positive) idea to post a few of the songs that are just coming on to my radar. Well, as with every good list, once I got started it quickly became hard to stop. But in the interest of reserving stuff for future entry fodder and to practice that useful skill called self-control, I’ve managed to cull the herd a bit. And so my friends, here’s a short(er) list of new-to-me artists who are currently getting me excited:

Cheerleader – St. Vincent

I’d heard the name bantered around the last month or so, but had no idea what I was in store for when I first encountered this video. I absolutely love the concept and am now leaving myself notes to grab a copy of this album.

From Now On – The Features

I didn’t realize it until browsing on YouTube just now, but I was totally into a song by these guys last summer. I failed to pick up on them at the time and ultimately forgot about them–shame on me! But I’m definitely putting them on my music store list now. Truly a fun and raucous song that is reminiscent of the more upbeat songs by Kings of Leon; although apparently that is not their normal sound. And the energy level this one inspires in me more than makes up for the fact that it appears to only be available on the Twilight Breaking Dawn Soundtrack.

That Old Black Hole – Dr. Dog

I love the playful lyrics in this one. Very clever and it pretty well mirrors my mood the last few weeks. No video yet, but here’s their recent performance on Conan.

Don’t Let It Get To You – Rostam Batmanglij

A quarter of New York City’s Vampire Weekend, Batmanglij (isn’t that just the best name EVER?) is also a promising music producer with what sounds like a very promising solo career in the offing. I love the layered organic sound of this song. Think of a bunch of people playing empty plastic bottles instead of instruments, then pair it with an orchestral string section. Creative is the very least that I can say about this guy.

These are just a few of the songs I find myself randomly humming these days. Who’s on your radar?