Cyr

This is mesmerizing.

Part circus routine, part modern dance, total respect to this guy for 1) his talent, and 2) his graceful performance.

The piano/cello backing track makes the whole thing seem so serene, not a display of physical strength or even human ability, but something cycling, a flowing series of movements, as natural as a wave breaking over the sand on a calm morning.

Weary As We Are

The record has a name! Jan's getting all the artwork figured out, and Simon and I are hard at work on a new website (if it works, it's going to be a pretty little thing).

It's snowing in Salt Lake City today, and I will be soaked and cold when I get home, but I'll make coffee and sit by the window and be truly happy and grateful to have been given the chance, for a moment, to experience my animal physicality, pushing my legs against the wind and through the slush, my breath hot against my scarf, lips, cheeks, fingers burning in my gloves, and to have the earth experience me, a little conglomeration of flesh and water and proteins and language emitting heat as I brace against its cold, emitting CO2 as I run my muscular processes on its icy oxygen, and occasionally emitting songs in the tradition of its birds, whales, humans, crackling rivers, growling volcanos, humming winds. Days like this remind me that we are not so removed from these cycles and traditions as we so often allow ourselves to believe. 

I love you!

Luke

"everything your twisted smile conveys"

I've never listened to much Amos Lee, so credit for this one goes to my dear friend Julia Mecham, who put it (different version, though. I like this one better. I am better than Julia) on a mix for me when I was stuck in bed with mono.

I like this song for a lot of reasons. Basically, I'm a sucker for:
1. Anything played on a Wurlitzer 200a (want another example? What? Another?) Listen to this in your headphones and let that vibrato cradle you gently into the stratosphere.
2. Motown, or in this case Motown-influenced soul music. I love it even when it's riding that fine line between great and sap-tastic (which is the same fine line that the Wurlitzer 200a walks, now that I think about it). It has something to do with the fact that my first love was the electric bass. In high school, I wanted to be a James Jamerson. And by "in high school," I mean still, right now, every day. One finger, guys. He played all those lines with one finger. They called it "The Hook." He had all five, that's just the way he got things done. Moving forward,
3. Black people's voices, and
4. Bass!
5. Simple lyrics that are also good.
6. Sad lyrics that are also good.
7. Well placed gospel backup vocals that don't sound slapped on by record producers (you're the best thaaang!).
8. Songs that end with a good breakdown.

Maybe you don't share those affinities with me, but you might like the song anyway.

Reminiscence

Some night in early 2009, a soft snow fell across diffused cones from yellow streetlights, and I put off writing an essay to go to an album release show. It had only been a few weeks since the more humble release of my own EP, and that was on my mind as I stepped heavily out of the white and into the old brick entryway of the Post Theater. A Logan musician I'd never heard of named E. Stohl Chipman was the man of the hour, but I was there because my good friend Julia Mecham was one of the opening acts. The other opener, Asher in the Rye, caught my attention not so much for the vocalist and songwriter, but for her one-man backup band, a skinny dude impressively playing percussion, bells, keyboard, banjo, and singing harmony, often simultaneously. He left the show early, but I found out a few things about him: he was learning the entire Amelie soundtrack (Composer: french genius Yann Teirsen) on the accordion, his name was Beaux, and he had become a new musical hero of mine.

As 2010 wears on - at the moment getting fitted for its own Salt Lake City winter - I'm playing in a band called Matteo with three wonderful musicians who I am proud to call my friends as well as my musical collaborators, including lead singer Eric Chipman. I myself am the skinny dude playing one-man backup band (albeit less impressively) for Julia Mecham, who is without a doubt my favorite musician in Utah. This past week, I became a member of a band called St. Boheme, playing french cafe music on accordions and banjos and vibraphones with Beaux Underwood. And in December, my new record will come out, and I will have a release show, and I hope you'll put off writing your essay to come see it. I can't promise it'll subtly present you with the genetic sequence that spells out your musical projects for the next two years. But it might be snowing, even softly, and I will give you a close hug.

Bowling for Hash Browns

I am the re-setting machine in a one-lane bowling alley. You only have to get one pin, way over in the corner, and before I can think about it I'm sweeping the whole array back into the depths of my throat with a big mechanical arm and starting over from scratch, simultaneously sliding the ball back to whoever is next in line. The whole process is slick, perfect, rubber, composite wood floors reflected in every waxy surface, and the ball spins airily, pushing the pins over with a softness that betrays the sound of the contact, cracking and popping like a big ceramic wildfire. I might be a single-function machine, but you're wearing someone else's shoes.

I'm hoping that when somebody buys up this old bowling alley -- It hasn't turned a profit in years --  they'll have the guts to recontextualize me instead of just throwing me out or putting me on the wall, a showpiece that has outlived its utility. If you turn the place into a diner, you can suspend me from the rafters, and when someone finishes their eggs and coffee, I'll swoop down with the mechanisms I know so well, everything into the soapy bucket and then new settings lowered down, silverware and glasses and jam and butter and a napkin at each place. It wouldn't be one of those corny themed places, "Come on down to Dine & Bowl" and signed memorabilia on the walls. Just your homemade buttermilk waffles and a good friend helping you bus tables.

Reality? Check.

I just had my sanity re-evaluated by a perfectly normal looking stranger in a green fleece jacket. He introduced himself with a joke I didn't understand, peering into my computer lab suspiciously and then laughing, "I'm just kidding, how are you doing?" After that entrance, he walks in and begins talking about graduating from West High, but he wants something more from his life. West High, so do I know this guy, is that why he's talking to me? He doesn't look familiar. He says he doesn't want to take away my time, but could I tell him where he could get a new Air Force Uniform? He needs a new one, he says as he pulls from his wallet a laminated picture of himself, a few years younger, in full regalia.

"No, I'm sorry, I really wouldn't know where to get one..."
"The VA, maybe? Sorry, I don't mean to be rude."
"Yeah, I'm sure they can point you in the right direction anyway."

Some talk follows from him (with no space for contribution by me but smiles and affirmative nods) about West High, new beginnings, getting his credits transferred to the U, his dad works here, he doesn't want to go back to the gravel pits, he's riding on the second wave of his life, and this is a letter from his bishop saying that he could use some on-the-job experience. Girls don't like him because he never served a mission, but he doesn't think that's too important.

This man is smiling an immense, braces-laden smile as he talks, finding humor in every few sentences, enough to laugh and watch me to make sure I'm smiling too. He looks young, fresh-faced. He looks like he belongs in the front row of a freshmen chemistry class. He is not the fast-talking conspiracy theorist that rides your morning UTA bus to work, who blinks too often or looks past you with glassy eyes when he talks. He looks vaguely ethnic, but in a sort of American Melting Pot way, nothing identifiable. He has shallow, sad eyes, and he takes his steps without purpose, as if he'd walked into my lab but might just as well have walked into any room in any building on campus.

"My uniform was stolen, you know."
"Oh, .... I'm sorry."
"Yeah, It wasn't you though. Or you," pointing to my co-worker and little brother Clayton, whose eyes are understandably glued to his computer, "or my dad or anything. I think it was a former roommate of mine. Not you though. I don't know. I've got this whole stack of paperwork." He laughs again. "So I just want to get the things back that are mine, you know? I'm trying to get things back that are mine, and it really upsets me. But it wasn't you."

I'm pretty sure by now that we're about to break through this dreamlike mess of an interaction. I'm convinced that the illusion of insanity he's cast will break down any minute and, in spite of his genuinely harmless appearance, he'll ask us for money or drugs, or try to sell us some kind of contraband, or make a grab at my laptop, because if the interaction moved to that level it would become concrete again, and I'd know immediately why he was here, talking endlessly in apparent non sequitur. But he gives me no such shift.

"So can I do that next week, can I get my credits transferred from West High and the Air Force to the U and start taking some classes, because I don't want to go back to the gravel pits," laughter, "I want to figure out who I want to be, if I want to be a teacher, or a car collector, I just don't know, but my plate is full of possibilities."
"I'm really sorry, but I can't really help you with any of that, I think you want to be talking to student services, they can help you get your credits transferred."
"Ah, of course, yeah, I don't mean to be rude..." he stretches his hand out for a fist-bump, which I give him slowly.
"Well, good luck with your uniform and getting your credits transferred," I say after he's talked again for a little while about wanting to go to school, more or less.

At first he's unfazed, but with his next disjointed sentences, he puts his picture back in his wallet and starts walking back toward the door.

"Well thanks, you know. I'll come back though, with some more time. I'll be back with some more time."

Mrs. Cold

So I know Kings of Convenience are old news. But I'm sick of the insistence in blogging culture, and music culture, and internet culture, on making newness and undiscoveredness our most important measures of worth. I get it, nobody wants their online presence to appear un-savvy, but it's tiring, and I'm tired. Plus, back when I was first shown these guys at 15 or 16 years old, I was still a pretentious music snob (only in the other direction; newness was an indication of detriment). Even when they were shown to me again two years later by my girlfriend at the time, who deserves the entirety of the credit for delivering me from my musical pretension, I thought they were a carbon-copy - minus Paul's virtuosity as a songwriter - of Simon and Garfunkel. The bottom line is, now that I'm ready for them, I'm excited about it and I'd like to share that with you, okay? So we could talk about musical pretension in all of its forms, including my history with it, and you could stutter through your teeth, "Luke, I'm mad, because when I showed you *insert band/musician I now like* you hated them!" and I would say with a sigh and half a smile, "I know I did. I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I am sort of annoying." Or we could talk about girlfriends, or we could talk about real worth in music, or we could talk about how freaking awesome Paul Simon is. Seriously, we could talk about that. But for now I'd just like us to listen to this song, which is good.