no easy way down

Here is something that I believe I wrote about ten years ago; probably still one of my favorite piece of writing from when I was younger (But I was so much older then/I'm younger than that now):

It is the rare gift of a supreme songwriter to be able to connect intuitively to his listeners, something that Mark Eitzel accomplishes with such ease.

His songs are never of the morbid death-wish variety. It is more about getting reflective: about the day that didn't turn out fine, about contemplating dashed dreams as you crawled into bed alone, and about the faithless lover who just left. And the cruel ironies of life and death he mocks so readily when he sings "nobody cares if I live or die" on his second solo album West (1997). And Eitzel could probably write a drinking song better than anyone, from the early barfly wisdom on American Music Club songs such as "Somewhere" to the sublime beauty of "Some Bartenders Have the Gift of Pardon" (off his first and best solo album, 1996's 60 Watt Silver Lining), on which the lyrics and title of the song pretty much says it all ("Just some old poets drinking the last nightmare in/ and the comfort of the dark and being forgotten").

Eitzel just lets it bleed so well, and it is to 60 Watt that I keep going back for more. It is here that his personal vision really shone through, on an almost concept album revolving around a near deserted bar by the shore. From where Eitzel sits in a corner, quietly observing the lonesome people and washed-out drifters that come around. The empty man forever distracted by his memories of decay and the old ghost by the wild sea, sad-eyed Cleopatra Jones with the drunken smile, all too disarmingly kind to strangers. Or of the old friend, gone beyond any salvation, as they sit down for a drink and conversation down at mission rock resort. The vivid imagery are all there, from the wrecked ship on the album cover to the many oceanic and barroom references in the songs; "a bar has a longer history than a country," he reminds us as he proceeds to drink to the last drop of his own reflection.

The song arrangements are appropriately sparse, with trumpeter Mark Isham lending much to its mood of elegaic weariness. On 60 Watt, Eitzel finally got around to being what he perhaps wanted to become all along - a torch singer par excellence, the way Chet Baker once was before that fateful day he came falling through his hotel window. In his own drab fashion, Mark Eitzel also comes across as curious hopeful in his songs, giving the promise of deliverance for the hangarounds from their troubles. "And there is no safety net in this world/ I have no time for good luck charms/ But I still long for your touch/ 'cause I know I'm saved," he muses on "Saved", almost enough to turn the stoniest-faced detractors into believers.

Make no mistake about it; this is not social music for the masses. Eitzel's songs are made for the downtrodden, the terminally disappointed, the haplessly drunk, the loveless and heartbroken. And those bartenders who have the gift of pardon.

plumb the feedback

For some reasons, I feel a bit compelled to try and keep up with the pace of posting here this month, whatever works. So again I’m recycling old stuff, this one written sometime back in 2007. I just bought my copy of The Eternal this morning; Sonic Youth is still amazing (more on that later of course). One afterthought about this gig review: I did not mention that former Pavement member Mark Ibold was on stage with the band in Shanghai that night, mainly because I somehow did not recognize him (embarrassing because I love Pavement too), and he’s now the latest official Sonic Youth member.

Jams blasting free

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extrahuman architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish. At first glance, the rhythm may be confused with gaiety, but when you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical, empty anguish that makes even crimes and gangs forgivable means of escape. – Federico Garcia Lorca

I have been a Sonic Youth fan for fuck-knows how long but watching them performing a bunch of songs I already know by heart in the triply crawlspace that is Shanghai, the colossal city which I will always have a love-hate relationship with, still gave me a sense of familiar unreality that is absolutely thrilling, the nostalgic surge inside the heart when the well-worn, chiming guitar intros to "Candle" rolls along right at the start of their performance. These veterans have soldiered on extraordinarily through an exemplary career – name me another gang of forty-fifty somethings who could kick it this hard – and few other bands old or new are as blessed with their ability to meld pop aesthetics with avant-rock instincts.

This was supposed to be a historical milepost in their long career trajectories too, Sonic Youth’s first two shows in the Republic of China (they played earlier in Beijing the night before).

And we had the additional benefit that they are touring behind one of their most pop-savvy albums in Rather Ripped (helps too that it has a high quotient of quality Kim Gordon songs) and while their set is saddled stitched to perfection, they were still able to throw in a few sonic surprises. Like making us wait till four songs in before launching into the frightening distortion vistas of "Mote" – and how they did it was spectacular, Thurston Moore skyscraping his gear while Lee Ranaldo punish the length of his guitar wire for effects, an ocean of furious freewheeling jams amplified to a perilous pitch. From there, the band doused the fire by segueing immediately into the clear-blue reverie of "Do You Believe in Rapture?", a performance that also hits home the truth for me that Sonic Youth’s underrated melodic finesse really does come through most brilliantly in a live setting.

Somewhere in between the newer Ripped songs and revisits to old classics from Sister and Daydream Nation (their blistering-fast version of "Silver Rocket" was particularly rad, with the velocities raised to almost revulsion levels I shit you not), they found room for a few oddities like a hard-boiled rendition of Lee’s "Skip Tracer", the only song they played from Washing Machine. Nothing’s sacred in their hands, it seems: right before playing the crowd pleasing "100%", a crass-sounding Chinese pop song came on the sound system while Thurston’s guitar feedback bubbled angrily all over the transmission.

As Sonic Youth tunneled towards the end of their set with the breathlessly long gauze of "Pink Steam", their unbridled enthusiasm is clear as they returned for two encores to round up two hours of thunderous bliss. They are still shaking hell, alright – superfreaky memories are made of these.

my blueberry nights (2007)

Blank and beautiful

I happened to watch this film again recently and I can't find anything that better reflects my unaccountable moods of late (can't write shit, but reading a lot); a melancholic mood piece masquerading as a stifled, badly-dialogued road movie, a darkly-lit requiem for long-frayed memories. “I just wanted to see if I can remember what it felt like,” so says Chan Marshall’s My Blueberry Nights character, in her brief cameo.

Indeed, some of my friends (actually, quite a few of them) scoffed at my likings for My Blueberry Nights. Wong Kar Wai aficionados mostly consider it sub par at best, while its wistful aesthetics come across as overly indulgent to others.

Yes it is pretty vacant but I find it hard with each viewing to shake off the film’s many beguiling pleasures. The repetitive pop music. The deliberately off pacing, the swirl of fitful cinematic colors. The ineptness of Norah Jones as a celluloid heroine, the Chan Marshall cameo (apparently Wong was listening to Cat Power songs during the film’s making). The stop-motion sequences that unfurl like woodcut memories. The unknowable strangers that burn their way into your heart.

non-pain

Something I wrote at the end of my last post referencing the Velvets, plus the fact that I wasn't in the best of moods and worrying about things the whole day (on a weekend for fuck's sake), prompted me to dig into some old Deerhunter, specifically their 2007 album Cryptograms. I previously wrote, albeit briefly, about the very impressive Microcastle/Weird Era Cont Deerhunter released last year and I'm planning to write about that one again, very soon. Also I did happen to write a capsule-type review about Cryptograms some time back; good times better times back then, maybe not... Here is a 'reprint', which I can't help but subject to a heavy edit:

John Cale’s self description of the music made by the Velvet Underground as “controlled distortion” comes to mind when listening to Deerhunter. A soporific spree, the songs on Cryptograms careen from flittering guitar shoegaze to introverted bedroom psychedelia with a dozy enthusiasm that goes a long way to prove that the influence of the Velvets never goes out of fashion. Updated with krautrock-driven shards and fragments, the spaced-out aesthetics is the right tool for pivoting around singer Bradford Cox’s somewhat morbid mood ranges. Best Cryptograms moment to remember Deerhunter by: the nocturnal melodic haze of “Spring Hall Convert”, the engrossed sound of someone blowing his mind out in a car.