Resistance

To my elders,

I resist a lot of things. I resist going to bed at night. I resist falling asleep, even when I am tired. I resist growing up. I resist new technology. I resist external forces of change. I resist (some) authority. And I resist liking new music by much loved bands.

Now, this last one sounds stupid. I know that. By why mess with a good thing? As much as I want loads of new songs and endless albums from the bands I love the most, I almost hate it when they release a new album. What if I don't like it? What if its disappointing? What if the sound quality blows? And then there is always the issue of having to learn a whole new album. Such a chore.

So today, when I found out that one of my absolute favourite bands, the one that made me cry at the thought of not liking them because of some bizarre twist of musical fate, aka Library Voices, launched their new website today, including an adorable new emblem, some concert dates, an announcement of a new album out this August (!) and a stream of a new song, I was actually minorly concerned. Would this song be good? Could it possibly still capture what I love about them? Would it take 20 listens for me to hear something of value in this song, only to leave me with a weird memory of not having liked it the first 15 times? (Which of course, even if I didn't like it, I would still keep listening, just in case.)

So here is a link to the new website where you can listen to the song and watch a video from their last album. The new song is called "Generation Handclap" and the album is entitled "Summer of Lust." I anticipate many songs about picnics and falling in love and reading obscure novels on blankets on a grassy hill with ill-fated loves. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into titles...

But to sum up the song itself, the first few bars are a little awkward and left me somewhat sceptical, but about 28 seconds in it makes a pleasant turn to self deprecation ("... this is generation drunk text") and more melody based guitars. And some horns in the background. Which is nice. Subtle, and nice. And surprisingly 60s in the quality of the music. Which I am a big fan of. But really, the piece de resistance of the song is the line "They say you are what you read. You can be Copeland. I'll be Murakami." Which is mostly just cute and quaint and clever referencing to semi-obscure philosophers (or, at least, I think Copeland is a philosopher from the 50s... I may be wrong about this). But also amazing because of the following: (Which is from the random rants or missed connections section of Craig's List about a year ago.)

"You stole my Murakami at Library Voices - (The Horseshoe)

First of all, stealing people's stuff in general isn't cool. But then to steal someone's BOOK from a LIBRARY VOICES show? Seriously? ... I'll forgive you if you write something neat in it and then leave it on a subway. But that's about it."

I think two love letters to Library Voices is enough for now. I will try not to base any more posts about them until the album actually comes out. But I am totally buying the 7" single if they have it at NXNE next week.

-K

The Sleepy-Time Energy Blues

To My Youngers,

Back in school I was a night owl. Well, I suppose more correctly I should say I have been a night owl since pretty much the day of my birth, but in high school and university I took full advantage of that. I would stay out at friends' houses until three, talk on the phone until five, or go on long walks through the marsh, sometimes not getting home until six or seven in the morning.

For much of that period I also worked doing theatre at an amusement park with many late-night and over-night shifts. I loved it. I would finish work at whatever time and be all hyped up and completely not ready to go home to sleep. Sometimes I would head over to a friend's house, sometimes I would tag along with some of the guys from work and go to the Wendy's on the highway to play arcade games (Oh Crazy Taxi how I loved you... ), but most often I would just pick a direction and drive. Bass pumping, lyrics blaring, speeding down the highway (always the highway or back roads, never by houses- I mean that would just be inconsiderate!). It was a half-hour drive home, but often I would just keep going north way past my exit, sometimes go east instead, the odd time even headed in the direction of downtown and driving until the highway turned into just a regular street.

There's something about being out at night, there are so few people about and everything is so quiet. The air feels different, the music feels different, the world feels like a completely different place. Things just aren't the same during the day time- sometimes they're just too crowded. Sounds over power you, sunshine distracts you. Conversations just aren't quite as funny, movies just aren't quite as entertaining, and Crazy Taxi just isn't as good on Playstation...

I especially love the part where night turns into day, when its still dark out but the birds have started singing. When the quality of everything you can sense starts to change. When the night-time people and the day-time people start to cross paths, when something turns into nothing and nothing turns into something. Its like you're watching the day get born... gets me every time. 

Now-a-days I am fonder of the day, I am fonder of the sunshine and the sounds, and the everyone-else-being-awake. But sometimes, coming home from a late day of work, or hanging out with friends, or sometimes just when its been a really lovely day and the night is still warm and sticky (or cool and crisp) I just want to not-sleep. To drive around listening to music, or go on a long walk, or lie on the dock or sit on the porch or the deck and have long conversations, get the giggles and make ludicrous connections between our lives and anything/everything else under the moon.

I guess once a night-owl, always a night owl...

-E

Soul-Time-Sing-A-Long

To My Youngers,

I love to sing along with songs. You know this about me (and possibly about yourselves!) though I don't think I wrote that quite properly... it should read:

I LOVE to sing along with songs!!! 

There are many things that make me happy, but this would be top five, maybe even top three.... actually more like top two. I love it so very very much. Very much.

There is something about singing in the car specifically.... in the summer, windows rolled down, driving way over the speed limit, with the music so loud your ears are ringing and singing so loudly that your voice goes hoarse (I actually once sang so enthusiastically to 'Bicycle Race' by Queen while on the way to work that I lost my voice and had to write things down for the whole day...) and I can't even put into words how much joy this brings me. I have tried on several occasions and just never seem to be able to quite capture it... However, on a recent road-trip I re-heard one of my all time favourite songs (I'm not afraid to admit it, its uber 90s alternative, and not exactly the most profound thing ever, but I can't help it, it speaks to my soul!) and was reminded of all of the things I love about singing in the car. As cheese as it is, this experience is so fully encapsulated in Open Road Song that I feel the need to block-quote it...

"I crack a window and feel the cool air cleanse my every pore, as I pour my poor heart out to a radio song that's patient and willing to listen, my volume drowns it out. Yeah but that's okay, 'cuz I sound better than him anyway, any day. Yeah my voice is sweet as salt. I search for comfort and I find it where I found it many times before, though times before can be forgotten..."

Its the singing-along part! The you-drowning-out-the-music part!  The finding-comfort-in-pouring-your-heart-out part!

Back in high school all of my car-songs needed to be of a certain type to be able to 'work'- loud, fast, rock. Thats's what car music was to me, but my car-music tastes have broadened vastly in the interim... From Sons and Daughters by the Decemberists to Valley Town by Elliott Brood they have widened to include songs that paint sweeping vistas, that use intricate harmonies and gut-grabbing melodies, not just those that are loud and fast. And yet the all important lyrical factor has remained unchanged. I know many people who would disagree with me on this, but lyrics are as important to a song as the melody, the production values, or the instruments its played on.

I sing along with songs. You need good lyrics to sing along to, and I need to sing along for a song to be real to me. Singing along is how songs seep into my soul and become an inseparable part of me. Its how they transport me in time (Semi-Charmed Life), its how they make me homesick (Oh Alberta), its how they make my heart burst (Wake Up)...

Two of my current favourites are Ghosts by Laura Marling and Gentleman by Said the Whale. Neither are all epic, neither are all loud, neither are what one might call all hard-core... but both have absolutely sweet and beautiful lyrics that melt my insides when I hear them and even more so when I sing along.

Whether the song is quietly beautiful or heart-thumpingly exciting- that feeling of flying down the open road, singing at the top of your lungs.... perfection.

-E

Childhood

To my elders,

I am obsessed with my own past. Mainly the things I can’t remember. My rational of my teenage attitude, my child’s logic, my toddler precociousness, and my never ending baby cries. I never grew out of the stage of wanting to hear real stories, about myself, about my sisters, and about my family. I love seeing footage of myself as a kid. Because I don’t remember it. Its a trippy experience, a Trumanshow-esque experience, to know that it was you, but doesn’t feel like it was you. I watched myself carefully carry a dinner plate to the table. I watched it with every step, making sure I didn’t spill on my grandmother’s beige carpet. And then a grown-up nearly walked into me. My head was barely at their waist. So I pulled back. I was trying so hard not to spill. So I pulled my chest towards my plate. My mom reached down just in time to stop me from dumping it all down my front. I was about three.

Hearing the stories, knowing my unknown past, albeit from the point of view of someone else, comforts me. Knowing that I was, even as a small child, a night owl. Knowing I was a precocious little kid, even with my late birthday. I learned to swim at age 2. E made me certificates for my first bob and the first time I climbed the latter into the neighbour’s loft. But more than comfort, I think these stories are telling.

I believe that the personality we have before we turn into teenagers, combined with our experiences, makes the people we turn out to be. People don’t change. Not really. Little things change, and we have phases, but the base is always the same. I was prone to giggle fits at the dinner table when I was 6 and I still am today. I picked primary colour, geometric shapes wallpaper for my bedroom when I was 3, rejecting my mother’s pick of pink and pretty and flowery. Nothing has changed. My apartment is decorated with bright colours and strong shapes. From pop art to IKEA prints, maps to movie posters, there is a reflection of that wallpaper in every room I have ever decorated.

I enjoy recounting stories of my sickly, allergy filled childhood, my being the only small child to ever need to get woken up my their parents at 10am on a sunny day, influence and teasing from my dear elders, and my ever present: “Go back to sleep. You’ve been in bed for 2 hours. You must have been asleep.” “I was awake.” “You were asleep. I woke you up.” “Ok mommy.” (I don’t know why I feel my never changed sleeping habits are so fundamental to who I am, but I really do believe it. The few times in my life I’ve been regularly exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as I went to bed have left me feeling oddly disconnected, not having had that extra hour or two to mull over my day.) Recounting these stories to friends is kind of strange however. Rarely can they recount their own. They have never asked. They have never asked what their favourite food was at age 2 (mine: pickles. Pickles could not even be mentioned in my presence without my demanding I be given one), they don’t remember the outfit that made them feel special at age 6 (mine: pink leggings and an oversized white t-shirt with a large, brightly coloured flower print across the front. The first time that sort of thing was cool), and they don’t know how their parents treated them in public (hi mom! No shoes were allowed if we were throwing a tantrum. Barefoot on concrete hurts more and makes you stop kicking, toy store visits were divided into looking days and buying days so we didn’t whine for whim purchases, and if my mom bought us a treat at the grocery store, it was likely to be a lemon for A and a lime for me as it was to be real candy). And knowing this about my childhood somehow manages to give the impression that I, like everyone else, am not simple. Am not easily categorized and defined. Am not only one thing. But, like everyone else, are a bizarre mash-up of millions of tiny things, pulled together nonlinearly to create the people we are. Full of Silly and Joy and limes and pop art and pink leggings.

-K