"... But one day I'll be free"

It's true I am out of touch. In part, I wish to escape the dreary reality I was born into and be elsewhere, anywhere, but in the here and now. Music used to allow me such a method of traveling without moving (too much - even this poor body can attempt his own version of a dance on occasion). But I seemed to have hardened my skin in the past few years, raising new barriers to keep the world out and looking deeper within. So it now takes a more conscious effort to open up and listen, and consequently, to feel. But I can't hide anymore. And though the pain is ever present, it may have some positive uses to it yet.

But I will take things in measure. Life, and the people we meet, need to be appreciated. Every person has a story to tell, a unique voice, a point of view. The world is full of wonder and terror and we know nothing except this very moment. We may be wrong, we may be right, but that in itself doesn't matter as much as the respect and love we give our fellow travelers. And if that sounds like a load of new age BS, well, maybe it is. Meaning, as pretty much everything, is in the eye of the beholder.

Marika Hackman (taken from a Bristol Couch session)

Marika Hackman is a beautiful British artist I was fortunate enough to be introduced to a few days ago. As always, the music speaks for itself, and it carries that slightly haunting-mysterious air about it that I find so intriguing and appealing. It evokes that feeling of distant memories and dreams long gone, of scenes and experiences you're not sure were ever real, but are true just the same. Recording these clips in a dark tunnel adds its share as well.




Marika Hackman - Bath is Black {from the upcoming That Iron Taste mini album}


Marika Hackman - Mountain Spines {from the upcoming That Iron Taste mini album}

Check Marika Hackman on tour and on her website:

Marika Hackman w/ Ethan Johns UK Dates 

1st Feb – Brighton – Unitarian Church

2nd Feb – Brighton – South Street Theatre

4th Feb – Bristol – Colston Hall 

2 5th Feb – Cardiff – The Gate Arts Centre

6th Feb – Exeter – Phoenix 

7th Feb – Nottingham – Glee Club Studio

9th Feb – Sheffield – The Lantern Theatre

10th Feb – Birmingham – Glee Club

11th Feb – Norwich – Arts Centre

13th Feb – Liverpool – The Capstone Theatre

14th Feb – Stockton – The Georgian Theatre

15th Feb – Kendal – Brewery Arts Centre

16th Feb – Edinburgh – The Pleasance Theatre

18th Feb – Manchester – Sacred Trinity

19th Feb – Leeds – Brudenell

25th Feb – London – Purcell Rooms 

Marika Hackman Headline UK Tour

28th Feb  – Brighton – Komedia

1st March – Bristol – Louisiana

2nd march – Manchester – The Castle

3rd March – Edinburgh – Electric Circus

4th March – Newcastle – Think Tank

                                           6th March – London – Sebright Arms

Be sure to also check out Bristol Couch on Youtube for some lovely outdoorsy folk clips, including one featuring Marika Hackman.

 

Shower Time

I tried to die,
I told my heart to stop,
Today, as the water washed over flesh,
Seemingly warm, sensually cold.
But my valve wouldn't stop
(though it did deign to slow)
As I cried and I begged it for boon.
"Let it go", I pleaded,
"get some rest", I did try.
For a minute or two,
I thought there was hope,
For the dimness was suddenly fresh;
And I thought that I saw,
Though it shimmered and sparkled,
A silence profound in my head.
And there were no voices,
Only water keeps running,
Keeps running all over my head.
And for one single instant
(it may have been two)
There was peace and serenity too.
But the voices returned,
The breath, it resumed,
And so did I, gasping for air.
And the moment, it passed,
And I still remain,
And all for a valve and a voice in my head,
And a memory that never was there.

The Rest

The last time I wrote about The Rest I got fired. Of course, I wasn't fired Because I wrote about them and I was re-hired just 2 days later, but still... it's a correlation to give anyone a reason to pause and consider. And I don't mean is it worth the risk of getting fired again. No, once you get into the music there's hardly going back. A part of me, perhaps a growing part, would not mind getting fired if it's to the sounds of good music.

The Rest

And it is. If you listen carefully to their new album, SEESAW, you may notice some other worldly innuendos, familiar and original waves, coursing towards some unknown destination, thrilled to be free. Part of it is the music celebrating itself, after being nearly destroyed in a hard-drive incident. The other part? Well, that's you, enjoying yourself along.



The Rest are on Bandcamp, last.fm and tumblr.
The Rest - Hey! For Horses {MP3}

Nothing to do, of course, with the current situation*

The bells were ringing again today. Sometimes distant, sometimes close enough to shatter my windows, they ring now more frequently than in the past. More urgently at times too. Crying wolf or just plain crying.

And me? I deftly avoid the airwaves that follow, hollow and loud. Despair? Apathy? The naive belief that everything will be alright? I do it all. Is there nothing left but to wait for the other shoe to drop, at long last, and let it be over?

Sure, there were times the bells tolled a story so contrived that it couldn't be true - it couldn't, could it? - that reached beneath the surface, briefly. But all things pass, do they not? Look at the greater picture, they say; it matters little.

The bells are ringing again today, recalling echoes of distant beacons that shone with promise and hope, and now crumble greyly, choked by vines and grime. Mocking, the sounds drift away, becoming blessedly muffled as I take another dose.

* This, for example.

A beginning - IV

IV

After diligently having taken care of several cracked doors and windows in the spacious but aging lobby, our tenacious Mistress tackled the issue of pets and other animals around the properties. Though cats, both stray and resident, showed an unusual attraction to LDB, dogs had, for the most part, quite a different response. The day time doorman's dog, a large old Lab that seemed to have spent most of her time lying on a mat next to her master's feet, used to begin a snarl cut abruptly by a retreat into a corner when the old woman was rarely passing by. The night time doorman, with whom I was a little more acquainted, told me that on occasions, when the shifts change, LDB would pause and stare briefly at the dog, a fleeting sense of amusement in her eyes. Other dogs, large and small, mostly avoided her all together; that is, except for Old Watson's little mutt.

A Beginning - III

III

Shrouded in mystery as she was, LDB was forthcoming enough to slowly take the reins of the building's managing board. A compromise candidate at first, she defied her frail appearance to appear and resolutely drive the board relentlessly over its meetings. No one was quite sure how or why, but she was elected into a second term in office, and then a third and a fourth. And as some tenants came and went, the only fixture, apart from the Darken Maiden statue on the roof that gave it its name, LDB ruled supreme.

A Beginning - II

II

An ancient, partly emaciated creature, the LDB, as Jacob Nichols, who lived in the apartment above her, tagged, has lived in the building for what seemed to be centuries. No one remembered a time without her small wrinkly presence and no one, not even the rare postman, knew her name. Her mail box displayed a worn yet elaborate silvery name tag that may have borne its owner's identity with pride once, but now was illegible to all who took interest. Mrs. Craig claimed she could decipher a few letters, including a reference to some old world nobility title, but the overly thick lenses of her glasses inspired little confidence there. She did show LDB some respect though, going even as far as a clumsy attempt to curtsy one Christmas eve. Mrs. Craig refused to go into great detail over LDB's reaction, though she took great measures to refer to her as 'Mistress G' (as 'G', she claimed, was the first letter of her name) afterwards.

A beginning - I

As part of my ongoing and futile battle against entropy in pretty much all forms, I've decided to write and publish a paragraph a day. Of what? I don't know yet. This is a beginning.

P.S: to those who write me, I am trying to work on it; promise.

I

It thus became apparent to me, and indeed to all involved, that something had to be done about Watson's dog. It's not that the small half-breed terrier was noisier than the other dogs in the neighborhood - well, not by much, anyway. Its irksome barks and howls did bother Mrs. Craig, especially in the evenings, when the elderly lady was trying to unwind with her favorite soap opera. To be fair, the show's opening and closing titles - and some of the content as well - did encourage all manner of howling from those unfortunate enough to be exposed to the loud TV set. But it wasn't Mrs. Craig who led our tight little group; it was the Lady Down Below.

Unnamed 0

I don't mind that I can't sing,

Can’t carry a tune;

I don't mind that I can't dance,

I don't mind that I don't smile;

The last I laughed was months ago

Though it seems like years.

I don't mind the falling hair,

My hands more bone than flesh;

I don't mind the headaches,

The bitter nausea in my mouth;

I don't mind the blurry vision,

The fact I can't quite hear;

I don't mind that I don't mind

Or can't remember who I am;

I don't mind the pain when I think of you,

Mistakes I've made so gross they trade their place with me;

I don't mind the job,

I don't mind the wage;

I don't mind the small bedroom

Covered in dust and ruins;

I don't mind the politics,

I don't mind the ban;

I don't mind the music,

I don't mind that I don't write anymore,

I don't mind that I'll never know or find out,

I don't mind the fright,

I don't mind the quiet,

I don't mind the noise,

I don't mind the voices in my head

No, I don't mind at all

They say there is a meaning

They say they call it love

But I don't mind believing

That there never was.

Spots of Light

I live in an ever darkening world, where zealots and priests shun the light and leaders act as cowardly bigots, denouncing the "other" and promote fear and hate. And no, for once I'm not talking about WoW. Though seeming less real at times, the physical world, especially the unfortunate region I happen to occupy, has seen better days, better years. Looking at old films, you'd think there was such a thing as "hope" once, before this dream turned into a nightmare.

And maybe you'd be right. I cannot otherwise provide a good explanation to the existence of some of the artists I've been exposed to at late. I know their spirits did not spring out of mere vacuum, because you can feel their pain and joy, memories and yes- hopes, in their voices and lyrics. And I know that they would not have been able to reach out to their listeners if they hadn't had some little sparks of their own. And these sparks are brighter when it's dark.

That spark is shining pretty strong in Carl Hauck, a young singer-songwriter from Illinois. Upon hearing "Windjammer", the title song from his latest LP, I was swept into a summer field of butterflies, bright light and a feeling of freshness I could almost touch. The rest of the record, a deeply personal work born out of coming home and coming to terms, is also written and composed beautifully, like, as the first song suggests, a fine Riesling, bursting with life in all its shades and hues.

It makes one almost dare to hope.

Check out Carl Hauck on his website, MySpace and Facebook. Windjammer will be out on November 9th, 2010, accompanied by special concerts:
11/5 – Champaign, IL – Mike ‘n Molly’s w/ Jesse W. Johnson & The Brothers Burn Mountain
11/10 – Chicago, IL – Martyrs’ w/ Andy Davis

Carl Hauck - Martial Riesling {MP3}
Carl Hauck - Windjammer {MP3}

The Lonely Mariner

Another year, another drink,
A little closer to the brink,
I stumble slowly on this ship,
Hesitant to find a grip
,Flapping wild hands with care
Lest accomplish what I dare,
To forsake this dire crew
And step into the sea, askew.

And there I'll walk or maybe swim,
Dipping fully in the dream;
Crossing paths with stars and clowns,
Rubbing nose with those who drowned,
Free to roam the land below,
Mermen, crabs and ghosts in tow;
O, such a cheery entourage we'll be,
Down there, below the sea.

But the air here, it grows thick,
As I pour myself another drink,
The crew rebels and then lays waste
To whatever left, emblazed;
And I remain, all tattered chains,
Linked to rudder and the reins,
To sail this broken ship once more
And to dream of distant shores.

Bare Essentials

Have you ever experienced the moments where you truly feel the music, when you're truly immersed in the song, seeming to understand not exactly what the authors may intended, but rather a more general context not confined to any particular time, region or notion? A rare occurrence, usually interrupted by a passerby who just can't seem to understand the peace you've suddenly embraced? An incident you can't reproduce nor hope to, merely chance upon? A singular, intolerated piece of serenity? That after it, still struggling in vain to comprehend, you can look into the artist's eyes and say, "yes, I understand you now". And then forget. You always forget.

But sometimes there's a residue, lingering, half made up and part rooted in near sighted myths, that either sits dormant at the back of your mind till the next time or, on occasion, begs to realize itself somehow. But, it seems the realization may be just as tricky as the inevitable failed attempt at reconstruction, and all that comes up are regurgitated words bearing the aftertaste of memory. So, I'll try to keep it simple.
Two songs. Death. Life. Love. One wonders if there really is anything else.

Pause.

It has been a few days since I started writing this. I stopped here for several reasons, a few personal, others prosaic. But I cannot ignore the deep silence that follows these songs, the silence that makes me listen, if only too briefly, once more. It somehow shows me things that truly matters, illuminating my inner dark. For, while consciously I do not want to die, sub-consciously I'm not sure I want to live. These "songs", for lack of a better word, sharpen the dull pain and make me feel again. And though the ache is near physical in magnitude, I'd prefer to feel it than to be walking around dead and unfeeling.

Sometimes things connect in life. Sometimes things have meaning, even if you can't put it into words, or maybe especially when it alludes you. But you know, somehow. At least for a little while.


The Tallest Man on Earth has released, unbeknownst to me (and I have been waiting), a second LP earlier this year titled Wild Hunt. "Like the Wheel", a bonus track on the iTunes version, has touched me the deepest on this excellent record.
Björk's "All Is Full of Love" (found on her Greatest Hits) haunts me on parallel lines, as if the two songs were completing each other (or me) somehow.
I am grateful for them both.


The Tallest Man on Earth - Like a Wheel


Björk - All Is Full of Love

Year One

A year has passed.

A year since I first walked out from under the boughs of Ashenvale, a cybernetic newborn in a strange new world. I've since have gained and lost friends, experienced wonders and horrors, died and lived in countless ways and methods and through it all lost more sleep hours than I'd care to think. I've neglected this blog, my music, my writing, my family and friends. I've traded one world for another, opted for another reality. I've canceled cable TV, gotten even more cranky than ever and had more fun than I ever had late into the night.

I am trapped. Trapped in my day job as much as in my nightly occupations. Held by fear and habit I cannot escape myself. But is escape any longer possible? Into where?

There are those who mark the coming holiday as a celebration of freedom and liberty. I choose to remember the wiser lesson that to be free is to choose that which you serve, that which you are a slave to. There is no escape. There is nothing but escape.

No Shortcuts

To say that Her Name is Calla, a Leeds / Leicester / York group is special is a profound understatement, almost as profound as their music and what may stand behind it. Indeed, every artist is, I'd like to hope, is unique in their own way. I believe that aside from the inescapable outside influence, the artist has to have something original, in content, form, point of view or any other mark of distinction, to contribute.

I find that the best of these contributions defy any categorization, that it is simply to be felt and experienced. Her Name is Calla possesses such an emotional core that would offer glimpses into not only the members' hearts but also the listeners'. It gives the impression of loneliness and isolation, living together but apart, a distant promise of something more, of an endless spacious road going on to the horizon. And the band doesn't take any shortcuts. The road has no end.

Go out to the open, away from buses and cities, and listen. Her Name is Calla latest single, "Long Grass", may sweep you off your feet, and once you're on the road, there's no telling where you may end up. The full length album, "The Quiet Lamb", is expected to be released by spring, followed by a tour for those lucky in Europe.

Check out Her Name is Calla on their website, MySpace and last.fm.

Her Name is Calla - Long Grass {MP3} (hosted for a limited time only)
Her Name is Calla - Long Grass (acoustic) {Video}

A Voice in the Wind: Paul Masson

2009 was not a good year for me. Its end in particular more than hints ominously of things to come, foreshadowing grim news and grimmer prospects. I lost several people I love who were my supporting pillars ever since childhood. My current job is in its final days and while the search for a new one continues, nothing tangible has yet been found. Accompanying and clouding all of this is my addiction to my own private world (perhaps in more ways than one), turning whatever reason I have left in my sleepless existence into a murky and blurry mood.

But there is still a little hope left. I may be sitting on a wind beaten precipice overlooking the abyss, but it's also quiet enough here and I can still reflect on the road I've been taking and the people who share it. I can still hear the song in the wind, calling out to me. "Change or Die", it taunts. "Come home", it whispers.

Paul Masson came back home to Baltimore after being away for a few years. Coming back, he crafted a beautiful and honest EP about himself. Reflecting his memories and feelings, doubts and fears, he focused it all into six songs that continue to echo after the music has gone out. Hear his voice carried in the wind.

And as for me? No New Year's resolutions except to keep my ears, eyes and mind open; there are still voices in the wind.

Check Paul Masson on MySpace for more tracks. His EP is available on iTunes.
Paul Masson - My Girl Baltimore {MP3}
Paul Masson - Where Have All the Gentlemen Gone {MP3}

Hide and Seek: Moga

I spend a great deal of my life looking for answers, seeking meaning in what I see and experience. Things must have a purpose, some utility, some significance, however idiosyncratic. All serve that underlying premise, more than half forgotten, that an answer must exist.

But an answer to what? What if I no longer remember the questions? What if I'm seeking out of mere inertia and boredom? Does it actually matter or merely founded on the same secret premise (that there is an object to be sought), leading into a never ending circle around myself, never reaching a conclusion?

I may not be able to feel confident in my own search, but I'm still able to identify the need and sincerity of other people's quests and questions. Many of the artists that move me and were covered here are seekers, some more readily identifiable than others. Some, like Providence, Rhode Island's Moga, may deserve a category of their own.

I've been struggling with myself these past few weeks to try and "tag" them, to call their true name and posses them. Instead, I now confess my inability to do so; it is I who is being possessed by the unknown and marvel at their own questing and seeking. The sound is unique, no doubt. But I think it is their own secret premise that hooked me, something wild and free, moving from joy to tears and back again, something primal. Something good.

In their MySpace Moga lists "Shamanistic Cultures" under 'Influences'. It is no lie.

Check out Moga on MySpace for more tracks and videos. Their album is set to be released later this month.

Moga - Mountaintop {MP3}
Moga - Cold Clear Night {MP3}

Bonus: Cold Clear Night {video}

Moga- Cold, Clear Night from Moga on Vimeo.

On the Sunny Side of the Street

Things are not looking up; the dark gloom of depression is emanating from multiple sources, mostly from within. Like smog, it hovers slowly over you, blocking the sunlight and instills existential anxiety into the vacant place that used to house your heart. There is no future, merely the ever present, changing from one futile semblance of reality to another.

But look! A single ray of light is piercing the clouds, melting frost and arousing long lost memories of... hope? Is it an illusion sparked by the ongoing fatigue or is there more to it?

What is it that has such power to put a smile on your face, the kind that comes from within? Who dares exorcise the demons of depression and frustration?

A musical treasure trove of rare properties, covered in a New York Times article I was fortunate to read today, is that shining beacon. Live recordings of Ella Fitzgerlad taken over twelve nights in 1961, lost for so many years, present an amazing side of the singer, close and intimate and above all very much alive and joyous. The article has three streamable songs which transformed my death row-like day at work into something very different indeed. I hope it would have the same effect for you.

Check out the article and play the three songs ("But Not For Me", "St. Louis Blues", "On the Sunny Side of the Street") to brighten your day. More of the recordings are available on the "Twelve Nights in Hollywood" boxed set.

Empty Spaces, Moving On

I was immersed in a funny, almost tranquil feeling last night as I was pacing the company's grounds. The place seemed deserted, familiarly worn and torn; a place I spent most of my waking hours in, but now felt strangely foreign.

I'm trying to leave, the cords are all but completely severed. The only thing remaining is a destination.

But maybe the destination doesn't matter as much as the will to go and breath some life into this existence, to dig up my wanderlust and venture on. A beautiful new Leonard Cohen song, the first in 5 years, apparently, seems to support this. After all: "It's like they tore away my blindfold, and they said 'we're gonna let this man go free'."

Freedom.

Leonard Cohen - New Song {Video), from a live concert in Chicago, October 29th 2009 (thanks for the heads up Guy)

Stricken Peace

An odd sound marks Stricken City, a London, UK based indie pop band. Fast paced, makes-you-want-to-dance moves are mixed with some darker undertones and all somehow, for the lack of a better term, eschewed and different. In a good way.

It's not another britpop band. There's something behind their sound you can't really fathom, something that evades you. It could be the effect of Rebekah Raa's voice as it hovers and haunts the melodies, disturbing the peace. It could be some of the songs' themes and art covers. But it warrants a second listen.

Check out Stricken City on their website and MySpace. Their debut LP, Songs About People I Know, is being released this week (iTunes).

Stricken City - Small Things {MP3} from Songs About People I Know
Additional tracks are streamable on MySpace

Back Rooms and Dreams

It began, they say, in the back room of a bar, a modern equivalent of a speakeasy, in nightly sessions of poker. Hazy cigarettes smoke, a few six packs and half empty bottles of beers lying around, busy shuffling sounds and the beginning of a dream - let's start a band. We've got the means, we've got that rebel spirit, we've got that itch to make it happen.

Most would have stopped at that point, either too drunk or too sober, but not the members of Tony the Bookie. Something was burning inside (and it wasn't just the extra cheese topping). The album The Tony the Bookie Orchestra is a product of that burning, still exploring itself, improving with practice and experience. There may be others, bringing to mind freer, perhaps a little more naive times. The spirit is there.

Do you still have that spirit? Take a ride with Tony the Bookie (website, MySpace, facebook) and try out the album.

Tony the Bookie - True Love {MP3} (from The Tony the Bookie Orchestra)