The Revolving Lounge's 2006 Picks

I've been reading a bunch of year-end lists lately, so I figured I would do one here at the Lounge. I'll continue adding on to the list for the next week or so. I'll start with a few of my favorite albums from this year.

Album Picks:

1. Grizzly Bear: Yellow House



First of all, I've seen these guys play twice over the last year, and they are one of the best live band's I've encountered. Each member demonstrates a refreshingly mature appreciation of restraint and balance, and the resulting sound is phenomenal. From their four-part harmonies to their impeccable dynamics, Grizzly Bear are a real pleasure to see perform.

These qualities are all on display on Yellow House. The album, whose booklet artwork is made up entirely of photos of an old house, is tremendously unified. Sharing an undercurrent of yearning and richly textured production, the songs fit together perfectly like a striking collage of mysterious photographs. While each song is crucial to the graceful dynamic peaks and troughs, stand-outs include "The Knife," "Marla," and "On a Neck, On a Spit."

P.S. Try to track down an acoustic performance (they've done a couple for radio shows and AOL) of "Little Brother." The live version is a little different and it's a real treat to see that the band seems to be constantly working on new ways to present their brilliant songs.

Nick Cave: "Breathless"

On our way back from lunch today, my friend and I wandered into the soon-to-be closed down Tower Records on Broadway to browse their clearance racks. They've been trying to clear out their backstock for a couple of months now and most of the good stuff is gone, but we thought we'd have a look anyway, in the hopes of finding some hidden gem.

We sifted through the messy bins for half an hour or so without success, but luckily as we moved over to the singles section I spied a copy of a Nick Cave single. It turned out to be "Breathless" from his latest album with The Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues. I hadn't heard anything from the album, but after reading a transcript of Cave's lecture to a group of students in Vienna in 1999 (which you can find here), I was eager to get my hands on all the material I possibly could from this truly enthralling songwriter.

I put in the disc a few hours ago and I can't stop replaying it. "Breathless" is a simple pop song (clocking in at just over three minutes) that demonstrates just how versatile Nick Cave is. With it's airy flute runs and it's nylon-string guitar chords, the song is actually pretty. I was amazed that I was listening to the same artist that wrote the ferocious "Deanna" and who is responsible for the lecherous (and sometimes hilarious) vocal on Grinderman's current lead-off single "No Pussy Blues."

"Breathless" is a simple ditty that you hum in the early morning lamenting an infidelity. It is a sweet song sung by a world-weary sinner. It is a song of windswept beauty whose mystery beguiles. I could continue to attempt these vain poetics, but I instead simply implore you to listen.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

Searchers

Linda lifted her head from the buzzing window pane. She looked round. The stale air taste and bus-vomit odors met her senses and she felt dry. Looking out through the dirty glass she watched the road slipping past. Lines and paint, zooming parallel towards infinity.

She sat up straight in her chair and turned to the old man sleeping in the seat next to her. His arms folded, his head was cocked upwards and his mouth was agape. He made a slight guttural sound, but continued in his slumber. Lindsey breathed a sigh and turned towards the window again.

It was mid-December and the verdant blur of ferns began to lull her into a daydream. She brought her legs up against her breast and lost her thoughts in a stare. Images of the old house floated through her head: the lock on the front door that she could never figure out as a young girl; the old phonograph that no one ever used; and the cozy fireplace with the quaint, tarnished picture frames on the mantlepiece.

The Fall semester had just ended and she was weary. She was floundering in that big city by the bay, and she was in need of a breather. So when her last exam let out she made her way with winter-wisped steps to her dorm room, grabbed her suitcase, and with little more than a mute smile to her deaf room mate, she was out the door.

Gradually coming to from her little reverie, Linda put her feet back down and sat up in a stifled stretch. She cast a glance down at her watch, not really registering the time, and turned into the cabin of the late 70s interior of the old Greyhound. Pushing herself up a little she looked over the seat in front of her at the little hills of heads, popping up like so many wavy gophers on a barren plain. She sank back down and again looked at her watch. 4:00PM. They would be arriving soon.

Bending down a little she reached for her backpack and took out her diary. She brought her legs up again and opened the little worn leather-bound against her knees. The page facing her was an entry from the previous week.

My room mate lost it today on the phone today. I can't deal with this bullshit much longer, I haven't the slightest idea how she landed herself a boyfriend... Only five more days, five more days and I'm out of here.

Linda sighed once more and shifted in her seat. She hesitated a moment; and then, with forced courage, she turned back to one of the first entries.

There in the middle of the page was an oily polaroid lovingly taped to the beige paper. In it, two happy figures were lovingly squeezed in the camera frame. Two sets of lips were lovingly locked in immature defiance. She scanned one of the faces and then the other. Upon the former, honest bliss. Upon the latter...well, who knew.

Linda looked out of the window again at the roadside scene turning dark. Stars began to flicker on the indigo blanket of sky spread out before her. A murky orange paint trail was slithering off behind the trees.

Linda turned to the next entry. The fast-greying page was almost blank except for an excerpt from an old book of poetry she had found in her Dad's study last summer.

For when I pass these solemn nights
When bleakest chill surrounds,
I seek that shelt'ring canyon's walls
And let my dreams resound.

For all the leaves upon the ground
I dream of springtime clear.
I dream of gardens long forgot
And a river full of tears.

But though I wither in this place;
Though I wish this winter gone;
From my visions I do tinder make
And tend the fire 'til dawn.

The girl closed her diary and replaced it in her backpack.

Night had descended; the cabin lights came on; and outside the cold northern wind blew a tender requiem.

The Secret Winter (Cont'd)

No title 2

Hope is nothing to be ashamed of. I dreamed a dream of silence, last night and every night.

Swirling images of gold-flecked winters blur past me in a sea of warm memory. Having your hopes dashed but once does not validate the total renunciation of the enterprise itself. Indeed, it is an enterprise, and most small businesses fail. It is a bitter statistic, but one that we must not allow to daunt us, lest we be robbed of one of life's last untouched sacristies.

In a dark place now, as I sit and try to recall that dream of silence, I am once more foiled in my efforts. If only we had more control of our somnambulant alter egos. How wonderful would it be to dally overlong in a dream once in a while--to not let such fleeting moments of bliss slip through our fingers like vanishing silk. But there is hardly time for "if's" and wishes in this place we call earth. Time is a heavy yoke that we all must bear.

With each new meeting of old acquaintances we see that it's abrasive hands have been at work. People grow more tired, the luster leaks from their eyes. Ambitions burn down, and resignation and contentment arrive to scoop up the ashes. Yet, we must learn to overcome the tell-tale signs of age and disenchantment. They are but devilish signage to a dark well of self-loathing and regret.

Age brings us much that we must be thankful for. It gives us perspective, above all. To look back on things past: it is one of the great gifts we have. We may cringe, we may cry, but we may also rejoice in some happy times that can never be taken away from us. Past loves give us reassurance that others have needed us--that others will need us again. We must learn to take our memories and shake them in a sieve. Let the good separate from the bad, that we may relish those halcyon moments. They are the agents of hope. Let them infiltrate and re-program.

One cannot take the passage of time for granted. Once there was a starting line, now there can only be forward motion. Take your loved ones by the hands and stay in your lane. All trappings are mere passing fads. Looks and behaviors change with the generations, but I believe the essences of people remain the same.

Hope is a faith at whose temple every being is welcome. There are no restrictions, there are no judgments. In times of despair, we pray. Have faith and try. Try because trying is beautiful, and there can never be too much beauty in this world.

S