GUEST BLOGGER: My Cool Reggae Friend

Half of a phone conversation taking place one fateful Wednesday afternoon...

Dude, like what's goin on? 

U chillen? 

Me 2 man, always chillen.

Oh ur at work? Bummer, I'm just ripping some tubes, watching cartoons, staring at my Rasta colored Christmas lights, burning some Nag Champa so Mom doesn't get pissed.

"Just a colorful vase Mom!"

Yeah I can totes write 4 ur blog man, I don't need to put on pants right?

Sweet, lemme pack this Bart Simpson shaped steamroller and I'll hit these Internet folk with the most groovy, Irie of vibes.

Ok, I'll stop typing my responses as I say them.

HEY INTERNET DUDES

I'm the guest Blog Wizard today, so brace yourself for some serious vibrations. I had a dream one time I was born in Trench Town and had huge nappy dreads and said things like Wagwonn and riddim.

Then, my poser sister woke me up with our fat dog and I was exiled back to Babylon forever.

#Poser

#DolphinSwag

Ever since then, I have become a quagmire (not like Family Guy, although remember that one where Quagmire married Peter's maid and they saw talking dolphins and then he faked his own death by dinosaur and robot ninja? Man, that show is the best. Oh right, lemme get out of this parenthetical…) of
knowledge on the topic of Caribbean music. 

You all have that friend, the stereotypical stoner cliche who listens to mostly reggae and Sublime, owns at least 3 tapestries and whs embedded many a smokeable word into their lexicon. You know, the easily distracted friend who giggles at everything you say and eats all your Cheez-Its. Well I'm definitely not that bro guys, I'm like, pretty high functioning.  One time I even wrote a piece about Caribbean music for my friend's blog My Cat Took My Acid.

Dick move bro

So here is some significantly less rootsy island music from Zion to impress your highbrow stoner friends with. No Bob Marley (although Bob is like, super awesome) or cheesy caricature reggae, just some selections from PRINCE BRETT DA RIDDIM MASTER RUNNIN JAH SOUND SYSTEM FOR I AND I!!!!!!!

(oh shit, can we take that part out? I don't want people knowing my name, in case the government reads this and finds out I downloaded the Snoop Lion album and Jorge Cervante's DVD Collection on The Pirate Bay.)

My cat, Mr. Whiskerbunz

Mighty Chalkdust:::Ah Fraid Karl

Written as a response to the Sedition Act, the Jamaican government's attempt to quell the negative criticism they received from their people, Ah Fraid Karl is a politically charged song with a groovy beat. The name comes from former Jamaican Attorney General Karl Hudson-Phillips and his part in the Sedition Act, with the song effectively dismantling Karl's hopes of becoming Prime Minister [via sticking it to the man.] Even if you have no interest in the political scandal it hints at but won't directly address, you can like totes throw it on and groove out to the island riddims. Irie as fuck.

Niney the Observer:::Blood & Fire

A reggae classic, Blood & Fire is driven by a thick riddim, and is chock full of ganja-friendly Rastafarian lyrics.  The repetitive guitar riff rings in your head for days and the bass wibble wobbles all over the place (but not in a dubsteppy kind of way, obviously) but the rhythmic elemtns unify to create a stellar groove perfect to burn to.  It was also sampled by some chick named PJ Harvey on her allegedly incredible album Let England Shake.  I once rolled a doobie on my sister's copy of that album, she totally vibes to it, but being a reggae connisseur I know nothing of these hipster vibes.

King Tubby:::A Murderous Dub

King Tubby was the father of Dub music, a true legend who started out as a studio engineer and had the idea to "re-dub" existing recordings through his 12 track mixer and twist the production around, emphasizing various parts of the music and pulling them in and out of the track, creating something that sounded entirely different than the source material. A Murderous Dub (and all of King Tubby's work really) is good for people who maybe don't like reggae, but listen to bands like Animal Collective and Godspeed You! Black Emperor who make lots of weird noises that hipsters dig. He has a boatload of good tunes, and you can't really go wrong with any of his dubs, so this song should serve as a good jumping off point. Bonus points: sophisticated stoners dig dub over reggae, so play them some Tubby to show off how relevant you are.



Peace out Internet dudes, I'm about to make a T-Bell run, I only need one more punch on my Taco Bell frequent flyer card to get a free Crunchwrap Supreme, #bitchin!

Crunchwrap Supreme [via American Horror Story]

Viral Infection: Animal Rescue Edition

Well hello there dear Internet strangers!  Pardon my absence, I've been hiding in the forests of somewhere super indie, making woodland creatures sing me #relevant buzztunes and tell me the secrets of dirt.  So here are a few selections from some of Mother Nature's critters that need YOUR love/Internet buzz to survive! [Insert sad Sarah McBlahBlah song here]

''Dear Tumblr Jesus: please make me Internet famous''

Frightened Rabbit:::Good Arms Vs. Bad Arms

Poor Scott Hutchison and his Frightened Rabbits, hiding away in Scotland from all the <3-breakers and hAtErZzZ.  He even shaved his beard for this stripped down version of my personal favorite FR tune, so he needs your warm lovin arms more than ever to heat up his naked face.

[via Sleepover Shows]

Okkervil River:::Black Sheep Boy

Once upon a time, Tim Hardin wrote this beautiful song about sheep vibes, then Will Sheff and the Okkervil Rivers covered it and wrote an equally beautiful album to further explore the emotionalism behind said sheep vibes and interweave the sheep struggles into Sheff's own heartbreak.  Then, some girl from the Internet used her MacBook to appropriate the aforementioned vibes/angsts and put them into a video with her and her awesome BFFs in black & white smoking cigarettes and vibin 2 landscapes. Help the Black Sheep Boy maintain his relevance, donate today!

Andrew Bird:::Tables & Chairs (Live at Bonnaroo '06)
Every June, a fuckton of vibed out folk make the pilgrimage/vision quest to a little town called Manchester, Tennessee where they proceed to join together in a tight knit little community that shares a farm where they vibe 2 groovy tunes, do copious amounts of drugs and fuck each other.  It is in this idyllic setting that we find our next animal in need of rescue, a young Bird named Andrew. This is no regular Bird: he whistles better than yo mama's bluebird (they whistle right?) and can play lots of isntruments and is so painfully attractive you almost want to vomit.  [Really, he should be rescuing us.  I WANT TO WHISTLE LIKE THAT! Everytime I try I just spit all over myself and have to drink away all the bad feelings my failure brings...but I digress....] Anyway, Mr. Bird brought his Apocalyptic visions to the blissed out crew at Bonnaroo and was met with enthusiastic whoops and BONNAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOs, but no one took him seriously.  With the recent Rapture in Times Square, people need to be hearing this message and really vibing to it, just letting it drift through the bong smoke and soaking it into their remaining brain cells.  [Also: LOLZ when he tells the crowd there will be snacks and they lose their shit.  Don't do drugs kids.]

A/Live Show: Bill Callahan @ Webster Hall

Bill Callahan fka Smog is obviously a favorite of this blog, so seeing him live was nothing short of spectacular.  That being said, those who check out Callahan on tour expecting obscure selections from the Smog catalog will be sorely disappointed.  Billy Boy stuck mostly to new material from his majestic new record Dream River, but threw in a few selections from his past few albums and ended on two Smog songs (more on that later, Tater. Also, sidebar: he is a damn good looking gent in person…but I once again digress…)

Webster Hall was full to the brim, crowded as I have ever seen it, which really speaks to Callahan’s underground following; even though he is currently riding high on a Best New Music from Pitchfork, he has always had a strong, dedicated fanbase that supports him.  The presence of this man is astounding, almost unsettling: he looms over the crowd with one leg up on the monitor, barely moving, but still holding a firm control over the audience.  His signature baritone reverberated off the walls and straight to chest, and by the end of the first song the crowd was smitten.  When Bill Callahan sings, he doesn’t just repeat his own lyrics, he clings to the sounds as they pour out of his mouth, allowing each syllable to resonate before he sets them free.  Watching him perform is almost a struggle, as he refuses to let you merely listen: he forces you to experience.

Photo Courtesy of Bowery Presents

You would think with an artist who plays the kind of slow, dreamy, occasionally abrasive brand of folk that Callahan does would make for a docile crowd, but it couldn’t have been more the opposite.  Whenever a fan broke away from the spell of the music, they would whoop and shout, and every song ended in thunderous applause.  Eventually, after hearing his name be shouted so many times he quipped: “You don’t have to use my name, I know who you’re talking to.”  He then broke into another swirling tune before he came back on the mic to clear the air in classic Callahan form: “I was just kidding, you can use my name, it gets lonely out here on tour,” which brought forth a flurry of “Bill! Bill! Bill!” Yet just to solidify his reputation as a dry, quick wit he smirked and replied: “Ok, I’m not lonely anymore.  That should do for the next couple nights.”

What struck me as the most fascinating about Bill Callahan’s live show is something that doesn’t always translate back to the albums; the songs unfold, like brilliant tapestries of sonic emotion.  Callahan’s band is tight as well, but not overbearing, allowing what begins as a simple chord progression to ebb and flow into a sprawling landscape.  Callahan is famous for using natural imagery, (favoring horses, rivers and things of that sort) but this is an aesthetic that translates seamlessly into his songs; they progress organically, flowing very much like the rivers he sings of, with mountains becoming valleys only to ascend again before diving back to the water.

Callahan closed with the Smog the fans had been waiting for, but it was his performance of Rock Bottom Riser that was by far the most impressive.  Callahan’s earlier work as Smog is often wrought with discomfort, struggle and desperation, something that is frequently mistaken for insecurity.  But that “insecurity” was completely absent from this version of his fan favorite: Callahan’s voice bellowed with a newfound bravado, one acquired in the years after A River Ain’t Too Much to Love, one that finally puts him in his rightful place amongst the most prolific, talented and unique songwriters today.

A/Live Show: Deerhunter @ Webster Hall 9/19

The first thing I found myself thinking as I walked into the cramped confines on Webster Hall was: where the fuck did all of these people come from?

It was by far the most diverse crowd I had ever seen there: art school kids chatting with Wall Street suits, cool NPR dads standing next to dreadlocked teens smoking pot and plenty of giddy teenagers and senior citizens. With a band as eclectic and unique as Atlanta's Deerhunter, this should have come as no surprise, yet I found myself fascinated with this motley crew of weird vibes. Once the lights went down, the crowd lit up as one by one the members of the band stepped onto the stage until the messianic figure of frontman Bradford Cox, decked out in a floral dress and black wig, loomed onto the stage.

 From the first three songs, it was apparent that the band was ready to span their relatively slim back catalog and play more than just new material; starting off with Octet (from their sophomore album Cryptograms); Neon Junkyard (from their latest Monomania) and radio friendly hit Don't Cry from the critically adored Halcyon Digest.  The set progressed in this fashion throughout, playing older fan favorites complimented with their impressive newer releases.

In the middle of the set, Bradford stopped a minute to express his sincere gratitude to New York fans and his love for the city, calling it their second home.  He too commented on the diversity in the crowd, inspiring a young man to throw his driver license up onto the stage.  Cox, infamously known to be quite the indie rock diva, found it hilarious, reading the name of the man from New Jersey and commenting on how terrifying the photo was.

It is such a simple moment like this that so aptly displays the relationship Deerhunter feels with their fans.  Media outlets and blogs are so quick to comment on Bradford Cox's unpredictable mood swings and difficult nature, yet they glaze over his many moments of sincere kindness and approachability because it's much less exciting to read about.

Deerhunter closed the set with a noisy extended jam of Monomania and Microcastle's Twilight At Carbon Lake.  The band quickly returned for a three song encore and left with equal haste, (as Bradford Cox was scheduled for a DJ set at Williamsburg haunt Glasslands) but the crowd descended the grimy exit stairs in a flurry of excited chatter.  Now that these characters had experienced what brought them back together, their worlds would go back to business as usual: whether that business be school, stocks or stonerism, their familiar social constructs were passed over and swirled together by the creative juggernaut that is Deerhunter.

DUSTY VINYL: Biff Rose: "Roast Beef"

Biff Rose: Roast Beef

Today’s find will be a rare offering from outsider artist Biff Rose, his 1977 New Year’s Day album Roast Beef.  

Biff Rose is most famously known for writing songs that people way more famous than him made famous, specifically David Bowie, who covered “Fill Your Heart,“ and John Denver, whose version of “Molly” scored him a minor hit in 1970.  

fig. Beef {Biff Rose & beard}

fig. JD {John Denver, thinking about Molly, vibin 2 birds}

 

fig. MDMA {too much Molly.}

Although originally released by Down Pat Records, the last copies are being sold via Drag City and owning one of the few remaining original pressings of this quirky LP is quite the treat, even if it smells more like old cardboard than tasty deli fare.  

The entirety of the lyrics are handwritten and printed on the front and back of the album, offering a more interactive listening experience, as well as a road map to the improvised diary that makes this album so unique.   

Financed by Michael Nesmith of The Monkees and recorded in one sitting, Roast Beef is a strange adventure into the mind of a man who may very well have left the building long before we arrived.  

fig. Clarksville {Michael Nesmith, money on his mind}

On Roast Beef, Rose offers up a winding, stream of conscious lament on loneliness, longing and love lost.  The songs aren’t separated by empty sonic space or key changes, but are weaved together through frenetic key jingling breakdowns that coincide with Rose’s own desperation.   

Side A opens with “Home Is Just As Good As Anyplace,” a somber mantra to perpetual loneliness that sets the overarching tone for the entire album.  This lonely wandering is continued in “When We’re Together (I Don’t Want to Get Caught)” and “Love All the Time,”  songs that are really only distinguishable by their lyrics on the sleeve.  

 It is only when we hit playful gems “Hello Dolphin” and “Music Fills My Burp” that we are introduced to the man at the heart of this album: a gentle, silly guy who wants a cute girl to squeeze while he drinks a beer on the couch.  Side B is when the happy façade visibly fades and we find Biff staring at empty walls once more.   

fig. DIY {Biff Rose going grassroots as HAIL}

Some would call this a break-up album, but really it goes far beyond the constraints of an actual relationship and into the territory of obsession.  Rose simultaneously pines over one he lost, one he loves and one he’ll never have and begs the question: are they all the same person? 

“Hello, Beer Can” and “We Were Only Fourteen” are the highlights of an otherwise uncomfortable Side B.  You can feel the creative gusto that controlled the course of the first side slowly starting to lose steam [via steamboat] but this is not to say the remaining tracks are mediocre, they just feel a little redundant amongst the ocean of piano improv.   

We understand you’re lonely Biff, now get up from that piano and do something about it. 

While this record may not be a strong cup of pop sensibility, it is nonetheless a fascinating offering from a unique artist and provides a rewarding listening experience for those brave enough to chart the choppy cognitive current of the Rose Sea.

FOR FANS OF: Daniel Johnston, Harry Nilsson, Randy Newman on some weird drugs

LISTEN TO: Music Fills My Burp, Hello Beer Can, Anxious Moments, We Were Only Fourteen

USE THE BATHROOM DURING: More Than He Does, Time Was Very Long Ago, Afraid to fall In Love Again

BEST SERVED WITH: Pull tab beer, warm lighting, roast beef

VERDICT: Solid lo-fi weirdness to impress that cute hipster vinyl nerd, or maybe make them commit suicide.  Either way, definitely worth a listen