The Shows We’ll Never See

The Younger J and I are true believers in the live show—when it is possible nothing matches the experience of seeing a band perform. Now, while at times the experience is sublime, at other times, it can also have a deleterious effect on your view of a band. Despite the outcome, however, the experience of witnessing a musical performance and, more importantly, absorbing the reaction of other audience members as well, alters your relationship with the music irrevocably.

(I was not a Bare Naked Ladies fan (back in the Gordon days) until I saw them live; their energy and improvisation made me respect a band I would have otherwise ignored. Conversely, my heart was broken at a Dandy Warhols show, but that is a story for another time…)

These days, I leave most of the concert going to my brother. I am old an ornery: most good shows start after my bedtime . (Old, Old Man.) But I do have some experience to draw on: my first show ever was Jerry Garcia; my last concert was the Austin City Limits. There are many and varied acts between.

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Running Songs

Another week, another re-post. I am putting this up today because @jake_turbo and I are running a half-marathon together. Here are all the songs we won’t be listening to. But don’t worry about us, there will be beer at the end.

 

A while back twitter directed me to an article claiming that Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard was lying about his song list for running. Because I am a narcissist, this made me immediately thing about my running list—it is several hundred songs long and not all of them are actually that good to run to.

I run a bit—I don’t call myself a runner because I have never run ‘officially’ or in any public capacity, but I do run enough to know the names of different shoes, the arguments for and against going barefoot, the ideal amount of hydration before, during and after runs, etc .etc. I do it because I enjoy it, because you can’t play basketball for three hours a day when you’re a real adult, and because my grandfather and father died young.

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Running Songs

A while back twitter directed me to an article claiming that Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard was lying about his song list for running. Because I am a narcissist, this made me immediately thing about my running list—it is several hundred songs long and not all of them are actually that good to run to.

I run a bit—I don’t call myself a runner because I have never run ‘officially’ or in any public capacity, but I do run enough to know the names of different shoes, the arguments for and against going barefoot, the ideal amount of hydration before, during and after runs, etc .etc. I do it because I enjoy it, because you can’t play basketball for three hours a day when you’re a real adult, and because my grandfather and father died young.

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Playing out (play)List

“We’re local celebrities now, I’m serious” – the youngerj

You may have noticed that the younger j has not been posting as much. While he blames it on procrastination and seems to think it raises my ire (well, more hackles than ire), the truth is, I know how busy he is. And, to boot, I also know that he’s doing something important.

See, my brother is in a country band. This all happened quite quickly. He started playing the bass before our father passed away and then got serious about it. (Cue crazy musical training montage.) Then, before I knew it he was in a band.

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New Album review: Toward the Low Sun, Dirty three


A few years back (ok, at least a decade now). I used to travel home on the holidays from my not-so-sleepy college town to the backwoods where I grew up. As you can tell from some of my brother’s posts on the area’s characters and atmosphere, it exerts a pull on you.  And it exerted a pull on me: I would come home for each holiday break and return to the places I had been before. Every time I left, the pull of gravity gained upon re-entry almost tore me apart.

If you grow up in one place and one house your home town (or neighborhood) reigns mythic in your mind whether you leave or stay. For my brother, the nature of the place that nourished us has become a defining feature of his identity; for me, leaving it has been as definitive. When I was younger, every time I returned and left home was like the re-opening of a festering wound.

For a while, I always returned to the home of my best friend, the Lead Singer, where, with his help, I obliterated my sorrow chemically. This is not a sob-story or a point to trade drug-narratives, but a simple statement of fact. While we were pointedly not talking about the widening gulf between us, the anxieties of accepting our meager places in the world, or the challenges of trying to be something greater, we talked about music.


Or, rather, he talked about music and I listened. While our taste in music was often similar and while I too often only learned of music from him, there were many cases earlier in our lives when I just dismissed his suggestions. But something about the desperation of my homecomings and the chemical disintegration of barriers made me his avid audience in these years.
I don’t know how, but I had never heard of Nick Drake until the Lead Singer made me listen to Way to Blue on one of those snowy evenings. I promptly bought every album I could. We started listening to the Dandy Warhols and other similar artists. But the real gift I received during one of those visits was the Dirty Three.

The Dirty Three is a band only for the lack of a better descriptive term. An instrumental trio comprised of drums, guitar, and violin, this Australian group has the most unique and memorable sound of any vaguely popular music outfit from the past twenty years. The violin is electrified with a jumped-up guitar pick-up (famously on a lark way back in 1992/3 by the violinist Warren Ellis); the guitar plays rhythm and lead riffs. The drummer borrows from jazz, rock and all-comers.

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