Posts Tagged ‘1996

01
Nov
18

Silver Jews “The Natural Bridge”

This record feels very contemporary, maybe because I just heard it, but it’s 22 years old—I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the idea that 1996 is twenty-two years ago—by the time I get used to it, it will be 30 years ago. And by that time either I’ll be dead or need ten more years to get used the idea that it’s a third of a century ago. This could have been my favorite record any given year of my life, and had I heard it in 1996 maybe it would have inspired me to take musical direction in my life rather than a cinema direction; maybe it would have inspired me to take a poetry direction rather than just all work, work, work, making millions—what good does that do me now? I blame the invention of the CD with destroying my appreciation of music over the years. But it’s not too late to get back to the magic.

This record is as sad as the saddest George Jones and Tammy Wynette, and as catchy as the Beatles at their catchiest, and as clever and twisted as the Reediest Lou Reed. Once you get the songs ingrained in your mind, at low-level, late-night, secretive, intimate liaisons (there is some music you don’t want to play loud, it just seems too dangerous), you can put it on for cleaning, if you want to, or cooking, or before or after work, I suppose, but it might be best if you have a day for it once a month or so. Every song is good—some songs are better than others, but it plays best as an album. Eventually, if you’re strong enough, you might want to listen to the lyrics, but watch out, they are kind of devastating. David Berman is as good of a song lyric writer as anyone who has ever written song lyrics.

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27
Dec
17

Michael Hurley “Parsnip Snips”

Normally I would never put on a record called Parsnip Snips, but seeing how this is a Michael Hurley record and I’m a big fan of Michael Hurley, I know that it will more likely be the naked, dirty, hippie with a sense of humor experience than the deadly serious, naked, dirty hippie experience, which pretty much sums up why I like some hippie shit and not others. A sense of humor is crucial, and that goes for all entertainers, as well as dentists, co-workers, friends, family, and countrymen. Not that Michael Hurley isn’t serious sometimes, and that’s when he’s better, but humor is the foundation. It says these songs were recorded on a Wollensak between 1965 and 1972—that would have been a portable, open reel tape recorder. So, naturally, it sounds like he’s over there on the other side of the room, right now. That’s even before I started recording, at age 12. (This is how old I am: my first tape recorder was a portable, open reel recorder (pre-cassette)—not sure if it was a Wollensak.) Too bad this guy wasn’t hanging around the neighborhood—he’d probably been a better mentor than the old guy who got us to shoplift for him. If I recall correctly, he’s lived all over, East and West, out in the sticks, mostly. This LP is on Mississippi Records, which would sound Deep South except the address is 4007 N. Mississippi, Portland, Oregon, which, if I recall correctly, is Deep Hipster.

Michael Hurley used to play at the bar across the street from where I lived in Portland (he probably still does—I’m the one that moved away). By the time I realized I should go see him, I could no longer tolerate being in a bar, in the evening, at all. For me, nighttime is not the right time. You’d think I’d be able to deal with it, for a guy like this, who is the very opposite of the spectrum of BluesHammer, but no. Bars have evolved, but it’s still drunks, just a younger generation drinking much better beer, which is also much stronger, and much sweeter—essentially the craft beer movement has given us a new generation of sweet wine alcoholics—it’s just now, instead of Night Train and Thunderbird, it’s Flying Raccoon Butternut Squash Porter. This album is really, really good by the way; don’t mind my diatribes. I pretty much love Michael Hurley (except when he’s cawing like a crow; I don’t even like crows when they’re cawing like crows; but I suppose that’s his version of Bob Dylan’s harmonica). I’ve gone semi-colon crazy in this review, the influence, perhaps, of the first song on the record, “You’re a Dog; Don’t Talk to Me”—maybe the only time I’ve seen a semi-colon in a song title, and it works!




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