I said Goddamn,
Henshaw, I ain’t even taken off my apron, yet. But this record’s burnt an unholy hole right through all that pork grease in the heavenlyfried pork chop/cornbread/tater/green bean supper that Esmerelda cooked us tonight, and alacri-fied me right up.
It’s been hours. It’s been days of legs pedaling, to and from campus, or sitting uncomfortable at sweaty, polluted intersections with the heat rising in waves, and weeks of sitting and working silently at the library, and listening to the morning news in concentrated silence, knit-browed, and working silently here at home, or silently at school. "Concentration" and "dread for my country and yours" can pretty much sum up the time since I wrote last. [God. Horrors and nightmares. Story from canvassing last Sattiday: Woman our age calling down from her porch, in a chummy sing-song: “You knooow Obama just got the nomination because of affirmative action!” We kept walking: step-step-step, then I hissed to my partner: “What did that even mean?” “It meant she’s racist.” “Oh.”]
And I’m so glad to have to have all this split wide open, finally, by Jenny Lewis’s new album, of all things. Yes, really. It’s called Acid Tongue. I don’t even know it well enough yet, to describe individual songs to you, just to say: Holy Hell-!, let’s rejoice; she’s put out a barn burner, left that last, tame and tiny rickety Thing that was that last Rilo Kiley album behind to eat her country-bluesy dust, fellas. She’s got Elvis Costello singing with her on one song, and the Watson Twins, too, on some, but the main deal is that the songs are just good. There’s like, some Dusty Springfield, and even, dare I say, some Joni Mitchell up in there. But mostly, you’re just thinking, “Oh, good song.”
Because, sorry to whine, but it’s just been so long since I’ve been caught up that way by anything new.
Everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout, well, say, the Fleet Foxes this and that, and they’re…fine. They’re pretty. No, they don’t remind me of CSN&Y, though yes, they’re clearly a bundle of talent; but there’s only so long I can marvel honestly at your perfect playing-card tower construction. “Wow, so flawless and towering. Such nice right angles.”
Gimme something clumsier. Something greasier. Thank you.
Henshaw, I ain’t even taken off my apron, yet. But this record’s burnt an unholy hole right through all that pork grease in the heavenlyfried pork chop/cornbread/tater/green bean supper that Esmerelda cooked us tonight, and alacri-fied me right up.
It’s been hours. It’s been days of legs pedaling, to and from campus, or sitting uncomfortable at sweaty, polluted intersections with the heat rising in waves, and weeks of sitting and working silently at the library, and listening to the morning news in concentrated silence, knit-browed, and working silently here at home, or silently at school. "Concentration" and "dread for my country and yours" can pretty much sum up the time since I wrote last. [God. Horrors and nightmares. Story from canvassing last Sattiday: Woman our age calling down from her porch, in a chummy sing-song: “You knooow Obama just got the nomination because of affirmative action!” We kept walking: step-step-step, then I hissed to my partner: “What did that even mean?” “It meant she’s racist.” “Oh.”]
And I’m so glad to have to have all this split wide open, finally, by Jenny Lewis’s new album, of all things. Yes, really. It’s called Acid Tongue. I don’t even know it well enough yet, to describe individual songs to you, just to say: Holy Hell-!, let’s rejoice; she’s put out a barn burner, left that last, tame and tiny rickety Thing that was that last Rilo Kiley album behind to eat her country-bluesy dust, fellas. She’s got Elvis Costello singing with her on one song, and the Watson Twins, too, on some, but the main deal is that the songs are just good. There’s like, some Dusty Springfield, and even, dare I say, some Joni Mitchell up in there. But mostly, you’re just thinking, “Oh, good song.”
Because, sorry to whine, but it’s just been so long since I’ve been caught up that way by anything new.
Everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout, well, say, the Fleet Foxes this and that, and they’re…fine. They’re pretty. No, they don’t remind me of CSN&Y, though yes, they’re clearly a bundle of talent; but there’s only so long I can marvel honestly at your perfect playing-card tower construction. “Wow, so flawless and towering. Such nice right angles.”
Gimme something clumsier. Something greasier. Thank you.
Labels: music, railing/raving
posted by Alice at 7:38 PM
1 Comments:
If you haven't found them already, I'm loving Los Campesinos. They're Welsh I guess. Weird instrumentation/vocalization, and yet pop-y enough for shallow me. And, literary references! "You can give your life to literature/ Just don't read Jane Eyre!" shouted by a very peppy group of youngsters.
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