Yodelling Llama

Last year I attended the No Depression Festival at Marymoor Park. A few months ago, I was sad to learn no 2011 edition was forthcoming, but glad to learn the Concerts at the Mural series would have a No Depression night toward the end of August. What with it being the middle of August, I thought to look it up again.

Sure enough, there is a free concert a week from Friday featuring the sorts of Alt-Country folks No Depression champions. However, I had a distinct memory that one of my favorite artists, Langhorne Slim, would be among them. Indeed, just as I was going through old issues of Seattle–which I continue to read because, well, it’s there, and I like to read in the bath, but don’t want to ruin anything of value, like a library book–in anticipation of a recycling purge, and I happened upon a blurb announcing Slim’s participation. Also, this free summer concert guide and this commenter seem to share my recollection.

Alas, according to the actual presenters, Langhorne Slim is not among the official lineup. The question posed: should I go anyway? Or after seeing Carolina Chocolate Drops this coming Wednesday, will I have my fill of Americana revival for a few months?

I have to say I find Rihanna’s latest “S&M” almost painfully sad. I’m not sure entirely why, except that her history with Chris Brown makes me wonder if some of the “domestic violence” wasn’t all a misunderstanding. Perhaps not.

In any event, every time I hear “S&M” I keep thinking it would make a great mournful dirge, along the lines of Amanda Palmer’s version of Radiohead’s “Creep” that is subtitled “Hungover at Soundcheck in Berlin” that is featured on her amazing ukulele cover album. That would be fantastic.

The consensus was that My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is fucking amazing and one of, if not the, best album released in 2010. Although I’m certainly not as up on the music scene as I once was, as of this moment, I have to concur. Yeezy taught me.

Did Radiohead just release a sequel to Thom Yorke’s Eraser. I believe they did. Did I purchase the “newspaper” edition anyway? Of course. After all, I just gots me a record player, and therefore clear vinyl–including the possibility of autographed clear vinyl–excites.

I don’t know whether the casting of Julie Klausner as Neko Case or Kevin Corrigan as Dan Bejar is better, but watching John Hodgman as a “more of the same” record executive get the shit kicked out of him by the band in this alternate reality video for The New Pornographer’s “Moves” is the best. [Although I am also partial to "The Daily Show" commentator Wyatt Cenac's turn as Blaine Thurier doing lines off a slice of pizza.]

First record player–as in, the appliance with the needle that picks at grooved, spinning vinyl platters–was obtained as a yard sale leftover from my parents’ (former) church. Only copy of the self-titled debut of The B-52′s–is that apostrophe a mistake? or an interesting piece of punctuation? oh…mistake of the greengrocer variety–was purchased as a reissue in Princeton for a dollar. When the first record player died, so did my opportunity to listen to the annoyingly transcendent pop songs that bounce around my skull from time to time. No more “6060-842,” “Planet Claire” (BUT SHE DIDN’T!!!), “There’s a Moon in the Sky (Called the Moon), or “Dance this Mess Around.” So when I received a new record player today, of course I gravitated toward this classic album. After fiddling around with the Brain Candy soundtrack, a Bound 7-inch, and the immortal Sticky Fingers (although not the collectible edition with the real zipper).

As a non-musically talented individual, my brilliant ideas for mashups invariably come to naught. So my only outlet for that sort of brainfart is, well, this blog. The latest envisioning that’s been bouncing around my skull is partly the fault of Nick Horby, who titled one of his novels A Long Way Down. Which got me thinking about Glen Hansard’s “All the Way Down.” And that triggered “Perfect Blue Buildings.” You know, “You have broken me all the way down/all monkeys do what they see.”

I’ve been watching the BBC show “Skins” lately (perhaps because the American version has been in the news lately, what with its attempt to mainstream child pornography). Not bad. But what struck me is how much I don’t regret rejecting grime during the import push five or six years ago. I was doing a hip hop show at an Idaho college radio station, so of course I was turned on to the likes of Dizzee Rascal and Lady Sovereign. But I declined to give it a closer look, focusing instead (at the time) on mid-90s New York-based artists. Good decision.

I’m sort of fond of Drake, if only because the guy has sort of a nerd vibe going on, commenting about film critics Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper and noting the square root of sixty-nine is eight something.