I imagine him someplace urban, deserted, an abandoned warehouse or vacant office building. He sits on a dirty pallet, puts a rock in the glass pipe, lights it, inhales and holds. In the old chipped disc-man there is a CD labeled in black sharpie. He sets it spinning and this song comes over the headphones, a song he made when he still had a hold on himself. He leans back and exhales. The smoke drifts upwards, expanding, fading.
it gets your body moving
Open your eyes.
It’s over there, smug, strutting, posturing for the crowd. Get up. Show it you’re not finished. Teach it something it doesn’t know. Wipe your face, smear the mess into warpaint. Teach it who you are.
Open your eyes.
Get up.
juicy
An old favorite for a cold day in an endless winter. Something with resonance; a nostalgic vibration to warm the insides.
Something gentle to generate heat.
blue in green
I somehow lived an entire life until just recently without listening to Miles Davis with any seriousness. If that’s true for you too, well, here he is with Bill Evans and John Coltrane. Because of course. Light your cigarette, sip your wine, play it loud so it fills your living room. Something soothing for a friend in need. Would that we could all be soothed.
demon host
“Oh reverend please, can I chew your ear?
I’ve become what I most fear.
And I know there’s no such thing as ghosts–
but I have seen the demon host.”
three consecutive cancellations
Connecting flight was cancelled, repeatedly, spent three days off the cuff wandering New York bed to bed to bed again. Clothing all flipped inside out, again. An entire ailing bank account sucked dry. Feeling out of sorts, disconnected, drifting in the sludge and snow, unable to form real connections even with old friends. And then at the MoMa on a whim I find
Warhol. And Lichtenstein. And Pollock. And Nauman. And the free jazz in the village is a woman who deserves way more attention. And the Cloister at the top of the island accepts a dollar for medieval art. And the subway is full of this.
This city, man. We have a complicated relationship.
banshee beat
“You have your fits, I have my fits, but feeling is good.”
Animal Collective is a difficult band to talk about. Even in their heyday they were often unsettling, discordant, abrasive. They were also amazing musicians, but it took some time to parse that out. The path generally went what is this noise? Is he screaming? Then, ah, wait, there’s something happening here. Then oh shit, it’s something rocking.
Banshee Beat, for me, is them at the height of their powers. It’s not the best audio quality, that chick in the audience keeps screaming over the chorus, but still I always come back to this specific performance. The time of day, the way it comes together, the color of the sky, I don’t know. I don’t have a favorite song, but I do have songs that would be in the discussion. This. This makes me calm.
wasted
To the first drink of the evening — a love song.
“When I have nothing left, I’ll have you
to myself.”
what are you doing the rest of your life?
Composer, innovator, addict, legend. Bill Evans.
christmas card from a hooker in minneapolis
Tell it again, Tom.
I’m getting another beer, I’m finally feeling drunk; tell it one more time.
unattainable
I went looking for live versions of old favorites a few weeks ago and stumbled upon this gem. I had no idea she was gorgeous. This kills me. That woman, that voice, that lovely little melody, those lyrics that break my bandaged heart.
Mm.
Beautiful.
the big ship
Brian Eno came to me at the nadir of one of my darkest times. Something precious had cracked and broken in my hands, and all inside was rot and darkness. I put this on, my breathing slowed, and every night I somehow fell asleep. To this day it always makes me feel better. Like everything is only and exactly how it ever could have been. Like this, just this, is enough.
butterfly
Something soaring for the morning. I have a real weakness for slide guitar, and for bands who clearly love what they’ve created. Watch the rhythm guitarist. Call yourselves whatever you want, fellas, you’ve earned that terrible name. Delicate Steve? Whatever. I’m all in.
can’t leave the night
When I first found this band it felt like almost. Not quite. It was jazz at heart, and it rocked, and the drums were on point, but something was missing, some kind of hook. After trawling through three albums, I finally found it. Them spectral, ethereal keys. Them drums. Mm.
buriedfed
He only ever put out two albums, and Pitchfork slit the second one’s throat. Last I heard he was doing carpentry for Urban Outfitters. I saw him play once, years ago, on my birthday– It was glorious. His name is Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson.
wait for the moment
A little sweet childhood reminiscence funk, to set the mood. One of my favorite songs in a very long time.
Ladies and gentlemen, Antwaun Stanley:
B-Side: 1612 // Sky Mall // Beastly
handkerchief tied to stick 