Song of the Week: Special Pre-Fall Edition

One of my favorite things about music is the way we attach it to a specific time and place in our life.  In college, I began making mixes at the end of each semester so I could remember what I was listening to years later.  But it wasn't just about remembering what music I liked at the time; it was about finding the songs that carried weight.

To put it another way, "what song can immediately put me back in the summer of 2005?"  When I want to remember what that period felt like, I can just play Lucero's "Sixteen" and remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and how it felt to be there at that time.  I hear those opening chords and I'm back on Walnut Grove Rd in Memphis, driving home late from the Blue Monkey.  I can feel the sticky July air blowing through the car, and I can smell the honeysuckle from Shelby Farms.  It's the way I track--and make sense of--my memories.

Each season usually takes shape around one favorite album or artist that dominates my earbuds.  I listened to a lot of music last fall, but the artist that most defined that season is the Avett Brothers, specifically their song "I And Love And You."

Because I'm desperate for fall and already anticipating the new music I'll hear in the coming months, I want to look ahead by looking back.  Here's a little window into my favorite songs from the past five falls, and how they impacted my life. 

Feel free to chime in the comments and tell me your songs of falls past!

2005: My Morning Jacket, "Anytime"
I had just finished college, spent a summer in Memphis, and moved back to Nashville to release Leaving Tennessee and begin a career.  Even though I'd already spent four years in college in Nashville, I felt like it was moving to a brand new city.  I was quickly consumed by new groups of friends, new places to explore, and new things to do.  There was always a reason to go out, always another event to attend, another trip to take--it was an exciting time.  My Morning Jacket's Z had just come out, and stayed in my car.  Anytime I hear "Anytime," I'm back in my car, about to go to a concert, about to meet new friends.  It's the sound of that post-grad, wide open with possibilities, seemingly free of consequence.

2006: Scott Miller, "Goddamn the Sun"
Really, this should be a co-winner with Miller's "Loving That Girl."  Those songs told two parts of the same story--a story that played out for me that fall.  I always remember the fall of 2006 as having daily perfect weather--sunny, crisp, and cloudless.  The sparkling pop-rock and acoustic production on Thus Always To Tyrants was simply the sound of that weather.  The lyric "my window creeps across my wall" was a familiar image in my bedroom (the window faced south and the shadows crawled across my wall every afternoon).  Sometimes a song finds you the moment your life resembles it.

2007: The Hold Steady, "Stuck Between Stations"

I wanted this pick to be My Morning Jacket's cover of "It Makes No Difference," because that song meant the most to me in the fall of 2007.  But when I hear "Stuck Between Stations," I'm immediately transported to one time and place.  My brother had just moved to town and we got a house together on the East side.  For the first time, I had to drive across the river to meet friends at night.  Every time I hear "Stuck Between Stations," I'm on 440W circling the skyline, driving with my brother to show him my favorite places and people in this new home.

2008: Kings of Leon, "Notion"
Everything about this song--the arrangement, the guitar tones, the wide open song structure, the measured energy--simply sounds like October to me.  Which is great, because I hit it hard in October 2008.  I thought I was listening to "Notion" because of the sheer fun and fallish beauty of it; I realize now the song's lyrics (about a cyclic relationship that just isn't right) characterize my life at the time.  I felt upbeat, but not content; I enjoyed my life in Nashville, but I was ready for a change.  Whenever I hear "Notion," it sounds like a kickstart, a wake-up call--the moment I knew I was headed somewhere else. 

2009: Avett Brothers, "I And Love And You"
I first heard this on Letterman the day after I'd left Nashville and the night before I moved to NYC.  By the time they reached the chorus ("Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in/are you aware the shape I'm in"), I was a wreck.  No song better characterized what I felt when I left, what that journey looked like, and what I anticipated when I arrived. 

2010: Who knows? TBD
That's one thing I love about music, and what I love about making these mixes: something will emerge.  There's always another song waiting to meet us.  Maybe we've heard it before and are about to hear it in a new way.  Maybe it's a brand new song.  Either way, it's there, somewhere down the road, chronicling the season and informing our memories.

What are your past Songs for the Fall?  What will you be listening to this fall? Let me know what favorite tunes can put you in a certain time and place.

Song of the Week: Counting Crows "Recovering the Satellites"

Song of the Week's back!

SOW took July off to focus on competitive surfing, which it does every summer.  It got a radical sunburn, a gnarly jellyfish sting, a yellow ribbon, and a year of free rentals from Blockbuster.  It also found love with SI's "Hot Links" feature, but the Hot Links eventually broke its heart.  I'll be honest: it affected the surfing.

Still, good summer, Song of the Week!

Now back to work.

(Quick housekeeping note: the Blog's picked up many new readers over the summer.  For those newbies, a few points:


1) Song of the Week is a weekly feature--usually Thursdays--in which I pick a song and write about it.  Simple enough?  Sometimes it's a songwriting element I admire; sometimes it's a particular memory I've attached to the song; sometimes there's a performance I think is remarkable.  Anything that makes the song noteworthy to a musician or lovable to the casual listener is worth talking about.


2) At the end of every month, I do a "Mailbag" blog in which I answer reader email.  The emails are mostly about music, but anything goes.  If you'd like to be in a future Mailbag, just email chris@chrismilam.com with a question!  I promise I read every email and always appreciate you writing.)

I heard an old favorite song recently and noticed something new: musical onomatopoeia.  What-what-what?  Read on...

Song of the Week: Counting Crows, "Recovering the Satellites"

Onomatopoeia occurs when a word is formed from the sound it describes.  For example, bees "buzz."  Poets often use this to make the aural world of a poem match its visual world.  Similarly, musicians use instruments to make the sound that the lyric's discussing.  And here's our example:

The Counting Crows "Recovering the Satellites" is a long and complicated lyric, but here's the short version: there's a girl, there are dreams, there are problems, and satellite/space imagery is used to help tell the story.  So, at the song's outset, the main sound is the rhythm guitar playing the opening chords.  But in the background (0:04), another guitar creates a pulsing, high-pitched effect.  It sounds like an oddly melodic hiccup, a recurring blip of feedback on our song's radar.  It sounds exactly like a homing beacon on--you guessed it--a satellite.

Hence, musical onomatopoeia.  (Yep, I'm tired of typing that.)

One of my favorite things about music is hearing something new in a song you've heard hundreds of times before.  How did I miss this "satellite" at the song's beginning the first thousand listens?  Now I can't not hear it.  One of the reasons I missed it so many times is because it's executed well; that beacon sound supports the song rather than overwhelming it.  It's a background piece, an added layer, but not in the spotlight.  Done wrong, musical onomatopoeia can sound cloying or hokey.  Done right, it's another way to let the song's sonic landscape support its lyrics. 

A few more favorite examples:

A sneaky one: Radiohead, "Airbag"
The song's cacophonous transitions and metallic, clashing drum sounds imitate a recurring car crash.

An overt one: Avett Brothers, "Kick Drum Heart"
The kick drum pounds in isolation after every refrain ("my heart like a kick drum") to support the singer's excitement.

An explicit one: Pearl Jam, "Given To Fly"
Mike McCready tells us how they build the song like a wave set to break at just the right moment (the first line of the chorus: "a wave came crashing...").  That gorgeous, watery guitar tone only heightens the effect.  (Sidebar: this clip is taken from Single Video Theory, which is a classic in-studio band documentary.  Even if you're not a Pearl Jam fan, it's well worth watching.  One of the best, most honest glances at how songs are actually written and how an album's actually made.)

And a personal favorite: Buddy Holly, "I Fought the Law"
Not satisfied with creating the perfect three-minute rock song and (arguably) punk's greatest precursor, Holly works six emphatic drum hits into the line, "robbing people with a......six gun."  Just to show off.  (The link goes to a live Clash cover, but they're true to the original on this.  It happens around 1:08.)

So what are some more examples?  What are some of your favorites?  Hit up the comments and let me know!

Songs for January

I'll be honest: I've dreaded Songs for January since I started this project last winter.

I began with Songs for February, because late January's when I had the idea, and February lends itself easily to a monthly playlist: pick the single most depressing, bleak, stark, sad, or weird song by 28 different artists. That's February. It's the height of winter: a time to embrace the darkest days of the year, listen to Tom Waits, and generally get moody with the blues. Cool, right?

Wrong. Because, for me, January is that too. I have some slightly--and arguably--different associations with the month, but winter has always been one grey, bleak, hate-able monolith to me. So here's my question:

What's January to you? Do you hate it? Do you love it? Do you somehow dissociate it from the Monthlong Blanket of Ugly that is February? And, in a bigger sense, does winter have stages to you, the way spring and fall do to me? Help me understand this new, mysterious phenomenon of "enjoying wintertime." You're my only hope.

Let me know, and give me your Songs for January in the comments!

In the meantime, here's the final chapter to my yearlong project:

Songs for January!

Bob Dylan, "I Was Young When I Left Home"
I associate January with two artists more than any others: Lucero and Bob Dylan. Lucero, because I rarely listen to That Much Further West outside winter; it's deliberately a cold-weather album.

Dylan leads the charge, though, because he moved to New York in the winter. In his earliest songs, you can hear the violent wind, the cold, steel skyscrapers, the crowded heat of an overpacked Cafe Wha?, acoustic guitars somehow generating warmth. You can feel that conflict of a new kid in a huge, cold city, carving out a warm little world. Whenever I hear "Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance," or "Girl From the North Country," or "I Was Young When I Left Home," I picture Dylan's New York of the earliest 60's. And I wish I was there.

(Also: "I Was Young When I Left Home" is, to me, Dylan's best vocal performance. I love him as a singer because of how evocative he is, but Dylan rarely sounds this heartbroken. This came before Dylan started wearing different masks--or maybe before he wanted to--but the result is a rare glimpse of the singer fully exposed. For five minutes, he sounds like he can't sing another line. Then he takes a breath, and keeps going.)

Bruce Springsteen, "Waiting On a Sunny Day"
I'll concede that January's not as totally depressing as February. Enough that I'll invite Bruce in for the cautious optimism of this, my favorite song off The Rising.

Uncle Tupelo, "No Depression"
The second of many acoustic-driven tracks on this list. Anything that owes itself to folk music will sound like January to me. Also, "No Depression" gets the nod because Uncle Tupelo takes on figurative depression rather than a literal one. They almost win.

Wilco and Billy Bragg, "Joe DiMaggio's Done It Again"
Re-vamped Woodie Guthrie. Can't you just smell the Cafe Wha? I warned you.

Joni Mitchell, "Court and Spark"
All of this album sounds like winter to me, so why not pick the title track? This introduces a subplot for January: it's a romantic purgatory. Things usually settle themselves--one way or the other--in November and December. But for those with unresolved storylines, January's often a mess of manic courtship and bad ideas. It's the month where you don't have a clue what you want.

Avett Brothers, "January Wedding"
Layup!

Gabe Dixon, "All Will Be Well"
Something about the hurried keys, the imagery, the letter-writing, and the exercise of self-persuasion sounds like January to me.

David Gray, "This Year's Love"
A good thing to hear on New Years Day. Right before you watch football for twelve hours and fall asleep in a bowl of queso.

Band of Horses, "Our Swords"
Most of BOH's catalog sounds wintry to me. Maybe it's the haunting, echoplex vocals. Maybe it's the dark, evocative, bass-led arrangement of this song. Maybe it's this guy's beard. Either way, it works.

REM, "At My Most Beautiful"
Gorgeous keys. Generous songwriting. Generally optimistic. Specifically bizarre. REM, ladies and gentlemen. REM.

The Four Tops, "Just Ask the Lonely"
Speaking of artists from the 60's who had a knack for making records in winter that still sounded warm and inviting, The Four Tops! I have a vision of those great Motown groups singing a'capella on the frozen sidewalks, puffs of icy breath jetting out between lyrics. There's something wonderfully reassuring about sad songs that sound happy, and that's a sound we need in January.

Alberta Cross, "Old Man Chicago"
Thanks to the Brother, I heard this in December and loved it immediately. If anything can make the wintertime streetwalking in Chicago bearable, it's this song. Pitch-perfect, and endlessly likable.

Amy Winehouse, "Back To Black"
Because the song opens with her meeting in a bar downstairs. Everyone knows it's too cold in January to walk more than 30 feet for a beverage. Am I reaching? Probably. But as stated, January's a romantic purgatory--Miss Winehouse is honest enough to fill the time with the occasional bad idea.

Green Day, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
A testament to smart business: this single broke in the winter of 2005. Of course, it's a great song that would've been a hit regardless; but an unwise record exec would've released it in July, when nobody wants to walk on boulevards of broken anything. People in July don't want to paint their eyes black and consider their shattered hopes; they want to listen to Joe Satriani and play beach volleyball like extras in Top Gun.

Cory Branan, "Love Song 7"
No singer/songwriter does more with fewer words. This is an incredible lyric--sweet, accusatory, invested, detached--that ends with a question rather than an answer. The musical landscape matches the portrayed headspace of the girl, and in its weird dreaminess, confusion, and swirling electronics, somehow suits the season.

Elliot Smith, "Everything Reminds Me Of Her"
The acoustic-with-doubled-vocals production has been well-used in the last few years by such wintertime standards as Bon Iver and the Swell Season. But sometimes you gotta go to the source.

My Morning Jacket, "Dondante"
Specific memories attached to this one in January.

Radiohead, "How To Disappear Completely"
Radiohead has made dozens of creepy, dark, depressing, and downright bizarre songs. I love 98% of them. But none are as successful as "How To Disappear Completely," because none are as convincing. Sure, anyone can create a bleak, uninviting world; but can you make me still want to go there? Radiohead can.

The Hold Steady, "Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?"
Their cover of Dylan's hilariously-tragic plea for reciprocation straddles the line between cocksure and hopeless. Points here for the arrangement (rollicking keys with a full rock set remind me of certain Highway 61 treatments) and the Dylan association. In January, sometimes that's enough.

The Killers, "I Can't Stay"
Because I couldn't resist this transition...

Lucero, "That Much Further West"
First, an epiphany; then, action. In the past, January has felt so long, slow, and tedious, that I'm itching to travel by mid-month. And nobody accompanies you on the road better than Lucero.

(Side note: The instrumental section of this song was when I knew Lucero was going to make another leap. For its deft composition and gorgeous segue into "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You," it marked a new level of songwriting for Ben and the Boys.)

The Beatles, "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away"
A winning combination of folk-inspired production and romantically embittered lyrics. John does January right.

Josh Ritter, "Wait for Love"
Because now I'm just going for awesome transitions. And, by mid-January, it might be wisest to wait...

Bright Eyes, "Lua"
...Or settle for something else. This song lives in winter, and is equal parts fatigued, confused, and genuinely sad.

Tom Petty, "Alright For Now"
Props to longtime reader Ross K for this recent mention. "Alright For Now" is Tom Petty's version of a sad January tune, which is to say it's:
1) Acoustically driven.
2) Bittersweet but never pessimistic.
3) Gorgeous.
4) Accessible.
5) Winning.
6) Everything you'd want it to be, and then some.

Wilco, "Red Eyed and Blue"
Being There is the rare album that lives in two opposite seasons: half of it is quintessential winter music ("The Lonely One," "Misunderstood," "Somebody Else's Song," etc.), and half of it is undeniably sunny ("Monday," "Outta Mind, Outta Site," etc.). I can't think of any other record I own that polarizes me as a listener more, which (I think) was the intention. Either way, "Red Eyed and Blue" is beautiful, inauspicious, and lost. In the words of Ron Burgundy, "beep, bop, boop."

Emmylou Harris, "Making Believe"
Two of the most reassuring things in the world:
1) Emmylou Harris
2) Self-delusion

Ryan Adams, "Dear Chicago"
Working the Chicago motif with Alberta Cross, "Dear Chicago" closes out our lovestory on an ambivalent note. Of all Ryan Adams's sonically cold songs (including all of Love Is Hell), this is my favorite, and the most generous.

Tom Waits, "Closing Time"
You thought I'd make it through a whole January playlist without Tom Waits, didn't you? What is this, amateur hour?

Bob Dylan, "Queen Jane Approximately"
The other sound of the season: that "thin, wild, mercury" Dylan described for his middle-electric work. Key-drenched, rollicking, golden, and incapable of holding back. One of my all-time favorite Dylan lyrics.

Pearl Jam, "All Or None"
Because, by month's end, we've reached a breaking point...and still got a miles to go.

iTunes Random Pick!
"Not In Nottingham," from Disney's Robin Hood soundtrack
I kid you not. Yes, I own this song. Yes, I love this song (the whole Robin Hood soundtrack is brilliant). Yes, iTunes actually picked it. No, I don't know what to do with any of this, but concede temporary defeat and hatch a new plan.

What are your Songs for January? Hit up the comments and let me know!

Songs for December

It's here.

December: the twilight of the year, autumn's dead end, winter's gorgeous prologue, and a season unto itself. It's chilly but warm, wintry yet inviting. In December, the weird rainy autumn of November dissolves, but all of its heady magic amplifies; it should be a time to wind down, but winds itself up instead.

Because December's the last month, it's also the climactic month. You unconsciously tally the year's successes and failures, crunch those heartening numbers, and start a final, mad, lovelorn bumrush at making four weeks count. It's as though your loves, or losses, or your life might expire with each year's final breath. It's closing time. The clock's ticking.

Rather than the bleak, cold, emotionally desolate realities of winter, December's brings polar opposite. You don't just want to make things count; you want to make them right. You want to finish strong. Your heart swells like the Grinch. You have a newfound appreciation for Lifehouse. You can't stop watching Love Actually. It's cliched to the point of Hallmark cards, but it's true: the holiday season is a season of giving. People embrace each other--literally (as November's FOM dubbed it the "Snuggle Belt"), and figuratively (glad tidings, good will toward men, etc.)--without fear of reproach or rejection.

So here, now, are 31 songs for closing time. Songs that sound like the last winded sprint toward the finish line. Songs that sound like a hopeful end and a brave new beginning. Songs that sound like a trumpet's clarion call or a sax's rainy lament. These are songs that go all-in, for better, for worse, and for the best.

They are 31 Songs for December!

(Plus the Random iTunes Pick)

Be sure to tell me your Songs for December in the comments section...

Green Day, "See the Light"
The sequel to "21st Century Breakdown," it's the album's final chapter, and marks the beginning of the end. It rhymes nicely with my Songs for October, which begins with "21st Century Breakdown," its companion piece. Here, the song is properly sped up, the lyrics more hopeful but more urgent. It fades out into a great unknown, ready for anything.

The Killers, "Losing Touch"
Multiple December themes at work here:
1) Going home, and ensuing headiness.
2) Reaching a tipping point in relationship.
3) Needing resolution, one way or another.
Bonus points for two musical traits I associate with the month: horns, metallic percussion (triangle/bell sounds), and keys.

The Thrills, "One Horse Town"
Though the album (So Much For the City) resides in spring/summer, I discovered it in December 2006. So, I always associate the rhythmic hustle and bustle and melodic warmth of "One Horse Town" with a Christmastime homecoming. Lyrically, it also describes those homecomings aptly.

Bob Dylan, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry"
So much middle-60's Dylan has a wintry quality to it--something about the key-driven, starkly percussive production, matched with his cold-weather imagery, set that scene either explicitly or implicitly. "It Takes a Lot to Laugh..." has always been my favorite of those piano-led blues shuffles, and it takes place as "wintertime is coming." Its mood is lyrically wistful, but musically upbeat; it's the perfect combo for the month.

Otis Redding, "That's How Strong My Love Is"
Some artists, or even albums, are just made for a certain season. Phantom Planet is a summertime band. The Beach Boys are a summertime band. The Counting Crows Hard Candy should've been titled This Is What October Sounds Like, And Deal With It. And there is no artist I listen to more in December--every December--than Otis Redding. Part of it's the sound (e.g. aforementioned horns). Part of it's the mood. Part of it's his approach to the songs themselves: even the sad love songs are still generous of spirit. They're down, but they're not out. And the cheerful love songs enact the joy of having loved ones to share the holidays with.

Whiskeytown, "The Ballad of Carol Lynn"
This song sounds like one long, sustained, doubtful sigh. It tries to put something unresolved into perspective; you can practically hear the two people exhaling after a big fight. If this isn't Whiskeytown's best, it's certainly one of their prettiest.

Beatles, "Norwegian Wood"
And the trials and turmoils of our autumn relationships continue. Maybe it's the girl depicted, maybe it's the story in full, or maybe it's the strange and stark production, but this song just sounds cold, and not in a good way. Not everything can be "snuggly" in December.

Bumpercrop, "Sinking Stone"
Bumpercrop wins the award for "biggest gap between a band's notoriety and the number of times they're mentioned in my Monthly Playlist." Still, I had to include "Sinking Stone." It was my introduction to Bumpercrop in November of 2002, and I listened to it on multiple trips home from school that December. For a mid-tempo song with little changes or dynamism, it's never dull, and always gorgeous.

Avett Brothers, "Laundry Room"
Ah, there are those keys again. And there's that homecoming imagery again. And there's that lyric: "tonight I'll burn the lyrics/cause every chorus was your name." Uh...busted.

Stereophonics, "Lying to Myself Again"
To really do December right, you've gotta take one long, hard, merciless look in the mirror. Then, start moving.

Wallflowers, "Invisible City"
For reasons I can't define and certainly can't explain (there is no tangible link here, just trust me), this song reminds me of "Silver Bells." If "Silver Bells" had a non-holiday-related, morose, evil step-cousin. Let's move on.

REM, "Electrolite"
I could write all day (and nearly have in the past) about how REM manages to speak some unreal, intangible language of the soul...but I won't now. Suffice it to say that "Electrolite" is everything a great December song should be: intimate, superficially mellow yet full of weird chemical intensity, piano-laden, generous, unabashed, honest, and cheerfully vulnerable.

Augustana, "Twenty Years"
You heard me. They wrote something after "Boston," and guess what: it's really probably maybe not bad at all. Not even a little. It's full of piano-powerchord-operatics and anthemic orchestral swells and totally-menial-yet-strangely-affecting lyrics. Don't ask me why a line like "fall asleep with the TV, darling" would matter this much. It just does; in December, everything matters this much.

Coldplay, "Fix You"
And just when you thought it couldn't get any more piano-laden or anthemic, welcome to Coldplay's four-part harmony and gorgeous otherworld, where lovers can just love each other, man, perpetually walk the streets just seriously, soul-crushingly, loving each other, pining for better days with the innocent and earnest hearts of newborn babes, all while the soft and symbolic rainfall of a Hemingway novel punctuates the scene. This isn't Coldplay on a good day--this is Coldplay on their best day. It's gorgeous, and disarming, and undeniably powerful.

Craig Armstrong, "Glasgow Love Theme"
Like November before, the middle of December gets an instrumental that wordlessly says it all. This piece from the Love Actually soundtrack calms the story, lends "peace on earth" to this piece of musical earth. It sets the stage for a turning point, a homecoming, the last gasp, and--maybe--a happy ending.

Band of Horses, "Is There a Ghost"
Maybe it's the cold, haunting production. Maybe it's the orchestral power of the song's latter half. Maybe it's the fact that I listened to this album a lot last December. Maybe it's just pretty. Anyway, it sets me moving.

Beach Boys, "God Only Knows"
And the Love Actually soundtrack has its second credit! An amazingly generous song that both gives everything to its subject and gives no credit to its narrator. It's intensely vulnerable, honest, and winning; the sound of a man who barely trusts himself, but trusts love so much that he's fearless.

Delta Spirit, "Strange Vine"
Re: keys.

(Side Note: I know I'm incredibly late to this part, but I got Ode to Sunshine a month ago and have really enjoyed it. This will probably sound insane, but it sounds like Phantom Planet and the Avett Brothers' lovechild to me. In all the right ways.)

Raconteurs, "Intimate Secretary"
Personal memories attached to this one, involving me, my car, Belle Meade Christmas decorations, and Kroger. Sort that out.

Lucero, "Goodbye Again"
Chalk this up as reason #2,081 why 1372 Overton Park is Lucero's best album yet: they channel Otis Redding. "Goodbye Again" is a nod to a different strain of pop songwriting; from the square, slow backbeat to the horn arrangement, to the way the chord progression provides space for the musicians to fill or leave empty. Ben's lyric and vocal might be Lucero, but everything else pays a beautiful homage to a Memphis original.

Wilco, "Was I In Your Dreams"
In terms of arrangement, this is the Wilco version of Lucero's departure: a slow, boozy, cocksure, barroom shuffle. From the jazzy piano and organ trills to the light horn accents, everything about this song musically sets the scene of a man walking home from a Christmas party at 2AM. He's telling himself what he needs to tell himself, and he feels good even though he shouldn't. He's alone, but he's cool with it.

Dr. Dog, "100 Years"
As we march toward one year's end, we look forward to looking back.

Pawtuckets, "Broken Heart"
Usually, December's a time for cheer, festiveness, time with loved ones, and happy endings. Sometimes, all that seasonal love can turn sour. If it does (and I hope it doesn't), this is what it sounds like, and this is what you should listen to. "Broken Heart" won't cheer you up, but it'll give you company when you're down.

Cory Branan, "Darken My Door"
One of my all-time favorites from Branan's unreleased catalog, "Darken My Door" is an incredibly intimate song about physical distance. Even when our narrator's alone, the girl stays with him, and in the song. It's a gorgeous, simple melody, an impeccable lyric, and its vulnerability makes it at home in December.

Lyle Lovett, "Christmas Morning"
Layup!

The Temptations, "I Wish It Would Rain"
In classic Motown fashion, "I Wish It Would Rain" makes a lament sound like a celebration. To me, that's true for this month: even the bad times aren't that bad. There's too much to celebrate, too much to enjoy, too much good out there. Even if you have a bad day, you can glide above it.

(Side Note: Yes, I realize this song lyrically does the opposite: tries to make a positive into a negative. But musically, it does the opposite. Hence, multi-dimensionality. The lesson, as always: Motown was good.)

Pearl Jam, "Low Light"
True story: when Yield came out, I was still playing catch-up as a Pearl Jam fan. That Christmas (98?), my brother and his friend were making some mixes to enjoy while driving around back home. They had written the tracklists, but those sheets had many changes and edits. For the purposes of cleaning up/consolidation, they wanted to type the track lists. I volunteered, because I was a humanitarian in 1998. Anyway, "Low Light" was on the tracklist. Because of sloppy hand-writing--and my Pearl Jam ignorance at the time--I typed, "Pearl Jam - Cow Light." And then was ridiculed mercilessly. For volunteering to type their tracklists.

So, this song (a Top 10 Pearl Jam Favorite of mine) always reminds me of 1) December and 2) cows. The mind is a wonderful thing.

Counting Crows, "Long December"
Layup! This song lives in December, but it also aligns with December in terms of personal connections. During the same time (98-99ish) as the "Cow Light" debacle, my brother's friends would come home from college and often hang out at our house. They'd stay up almost all night catching up, trading stories from school, and generally being relentlessly cool. Meanwhile, I had reached an age/level of acceptability that I was allowed to hang out. There was always music in the background--usually mixes or favorites people brought over--and one night Recovering the Satellites must've played 6 times consecutively.

And I'm fourteen, and I'm getting this intense, fly-on-the-wall education about my brother, and his friends, and College Things, and all coolness therein, and what it looks like when older kids like each other, and what it looks like when college girls flirt, and there's this never-ending avalanche of great pop music I've never heard before, and Recovering the Satellites cycles until the last car leaves at 5am and I'm still listening an hour later, by myself in the den, too wired to sleep...and then there's "Long December" again while this new sun comes up...and what I'm trying to say is this: that was a great night.

Sam & Dave, "Bring It On Home To Me"
This song is so pitch-perfect--so effortlessly winning and cheerful and warm--and its arrangement so in-line with the aforementioned December mood (keys, horns, etc.), it's destined to close a holiday-season rom-com with Sarah Jessica Parker, backing a final "party" montage of white people hugging each other and dancing uninhibitedly while wool and knowing glances abound. And when that happens, you think I'll be sad. But I won't. I will see that movie, twice, and I will love that montage, and I will nod my head and chuckle to myself like a crazy person. Because it's December, man.

Rolling Stones, "Shine a Light"
I think I've picked a song from Exile for most months of the year, so why not include its closer for December? Not much more to add, other than to point out the "light" motif running through this playlist. From Green Day to the Stones, I'm intertwining some serious imagery. Didn't think I was working on that level, did you?

My Morning Jacket, "It Makes No Difference"
The Band's original would give us an unhappy ending, but I prefer (and picked) MMJ's cover for this reason: it breaks free. While the lyrics are trapped in a state of unresolved heartache and turmoil, the music tells a different story. It pushes itself forward, explodes, and plows ahead with certainty, then some degree of contentment, then something like jubilation. While the Band's harmonies were mournful, MMJ's sound sunny and triumphant. In the song's climactic moment (the bridge's transition into the final chorus), the band drops out, only to be signaled by James's defiant final vocal for a last charge. The trading guitar and sax solos create a perfect dialogue, equal parts anguished and cheerful. It's a bittersweet and ambivalent song, to be sure, but it's also winning. It puts up a fight, and it's ready for more. It's proof that the right sad song can make you feel infinitely better than a happy one.

And the iTunes Random Pick for December is...
The Band, "Katie's Been Gone"

Oh, sweet irony.

What are your Songs for December? Hit up the comments and let me know.

Oh, and keep a lookout. I'm to do a special list later in the month: Songs for Christmas!

Until then,
CM

The Monthly Mailbag Returns! (Part 2)

The Super-Giant, Mega-Blowout, Resurgent, Triumphant, Two-Part Mailbag Continues!

For Part 1, go here.

Let's get back to your questions!

Hey Chris, in a recent Fan of the Month, you asked an interesting question: what album would you pick as your morning alarm for a year? I thought the FOM's answer was great (The Ultimate Otis Redding). Mine would be either be Led Zeppelin II or Pearl Jam Vs. What's yours? --Rob, Washington, D.C.
I was afraid of this. As soon as FOM Sarah picked The Ultimate Otis Redding, I knew that: 1) someone would turn the question on me and 2) I'd have no answer. Her choice was perfect, and probably one I wouldn't have come up with on my own. Now, I'm reeling.

As a refresher, the question is this: You wake up to an alarm every morning. You have to pick one album that will serve as your wake-up call for exactly a year. Which song plays--and which 30-second snippet it chooses--is completely randomized. You can't control it. All you know is that you'll wake up to 30 seconds of something off that record for 365 days. Now...

Let's break this thing down. To me, there are four things to consider:

1) Mood. This one, obviously, is huge. Because one randomly chosen moment from this album will start every day, I need something that offers plenty of positive, fun, uptempo moments. It needs to have energy (Green Day), but it doesn't need to be heavy (Metallica). Angry albums are avoided (sorry, Rage Against the Machine). Some days might deserve a sad/slow/uneasy beginning, but I can't afford to pick a sad/slow/uneasy album. As much as I love Cory Branan, one week of The Hell You Say alarms would leave me bed-ridden for months.
Excludes: Most singer/songwriter fare. All of the classical music and jazz that I own. All metal. Most old blues and country. Most rap. Practically everything by R.E.M., Radiohead, and Wilco. A few things by the Beatles. Pearl Jam' No Code.

2) Variation. Within the range of that overarching mood, I still need variation. Every day doesn't feel the same, and every alarm shouldn't sound the same. I'm looking for the album that has the right percentage of upbeat rockers (57%), mid-tempo groovers (31%), and take-it-down-a-notch-and-reflect ballads (12%). And if you're wondering if that's the approximate breakdown for how I feel every morning when I wake up--yes, yes it is.
Excludes: Early Beach Boys. Most punk. A lot of Led Zeppelin, the Who, and the Clash. Some alt-country. A few things by the Beatles. Pearl Jam's Vs.

3) Durability. There are only so many 30-second snippets to choose from, and 365 days in a year. I'm no mathematician, but you'll repeat alarms. A lot. I need an album that's long enough to curb repetition, and durable enough to survive it. I need something I've heard a thousand times already and continue to enjoy. I need something I have a chance at still loving after the year's over, which means fresh, new favorites are less desirable. As much as I love the new Avett Brothers' I And Love And You, I can't vouch for its durability--I like it right now largely because it's happening right now. For this question, I need something I've lived with for several years, something always enjoyable and occasionally surprising. For me, older, "classic" albums get the nod.
Excludes: All short albums and most contemporary albums (Kings of Leon, Band of Horses, Avett Brothers, some My Morning Jacket). Anything I own that you might find in Pitchfork. Some early Beatles. Pearl Jam's Backspacer.

4) Seasonality. It's one of music's greatest and most mysterious joys: some things just sound like a season. Most of my favorite albums entrench themselves (lyrically, sonically, even thematically) in one season and invite you to spend those months with them. But for this question, I need something that's beyond versatile. I need something beyond season-neutral. I need an album that's season-specific, but for an entire year. Because this album will be my alarm for 365 days, I need something that gives me a decent chance of matching that morning's weather and mood. This album needs to have "fall" songs and "spring" songs, and everything in between.
Excludes: Everything by the Counting Crows. Most Lucero. A lot of the White Stripes. Some Beatles. Pearl Jam's Yield.

So, what's left?

Motown and Stax artists have great options (mood-wise, most of the sad songs still sound happy), but I'm limited to my albums. I only have their anthologies, and I'm arbitrarily deciding that those don't count. Big Star's in play, but their penchant for the depressing ("Try Again") and/or bizarre ("India Song") scares me off. If I heard "India Song" at 6AM on a February morning, I might have a seizure.

Of course, there are always the Beatles. If you made the case for Help or Abbey Road, I probably wouldn't fight you. Still, the Beatles' catalog is almost too good for this question: the things that make their best albums great (multi-dimensionality, song variation, etc.), make them problematic for a daily wake-up call. Revolver might be the greatest pop record of all-time, but if the shuffle sent me "Eleanor Rigby" four days in a row, I might not recover.

You see where I'm headed, don't you?

My choice: The Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street.

The key quality that prompted this post is what makes it my choice now: amazing sonic consistency. The "mood" breakdown is perfect: tons of upbeat rockers that may-or-may not literally be cheerful (from "Rocks Off," to "Happy"), plenty of mid-tempo groovers that can start the day off and get you moving ("Casino Boogie," "Ventilator Blues"), and the occasional time-to-reflect ballad ("Sweet Virginia," "Shine a Light"). While the ballads are slower and wistful and--yes--sad, they don't sound spine-crushingly depressing. There's a difference between "Stones sad" and "Radiohead sad," and the difference is whether I'm getting up with some nostalgia, making some coffee, and forming a resolution, or whether I'm moving to a cabin in Denmark and never taking another phone call.

Exile even has an innocuously trippy tune ("I Just Want to See His Face") to meet you halfway when you've woken up from a bizarre dream. In terms of mood and variation, it has everything, and I don't think anyone's arguing its durability. I've lived with this album for years, and I always come back to it, regardless of season, time of day, or my given mood; its remarkable consistency and makes it one of the most-listenable albums I own.

As for seasonality, it runs the spectrum. As a brassy rock record, it lends itself naturally to any sunny months; you can make a case for all of it fitting in with summer. Still, some songs have the renewed energy of spring ("Rocks Off," "Turd On the Run"); some have that beautiful, wistful quality of autumn ("Loving Cup," "Torn and Frayed"); some fit in with the subdued stoicism of winter ("Sweet Black Angel," "Let It Loose").

Ultimately, Exile's the pick because it has to be: no other album I own does so much by doing one thing. It's not the best album of all-time, but it is a classic. They're not the greatest band in history (perhaps a debate for another post), but they're in the Pantheon. They might not have a song for every moment of every day, but they've got a whole album to wake up to. Maybe that's always been the Stones' appeal: I'm never in love with them, but I'm always infatuated.

I want to settle down with Revolver, but I want to wake up next to Exile on Main Street.

You've been promising reviews of new music since the New Green Day came out. Enough already! Give me something. --Ben, Little Rock
Ask, and ask again, and ask repeatedly, and ye shall receive!

Green Day, 21st Century Breakdown
When American Idiot came out, I thought, "this is an inspired, relevant album by the right band at the right time...it's one of the best of the decade, but it's also probably Green Day's swan song. They probably can't do this again."

In theory, I was right: even the greatest bands don't bat 1.000. For every Vitalogy, there's a Riot Act. For every Kid A/Amnesiac, there's a Hail to the Thief (I know, I know, it's still a good album). Point is, we judge bands relative to other bands, but also relative to themselves. In a way, they define their own greatness.

So when 21st Century Breakdown came out, I didn't expect much. I wanted to be fair to Green Day. I wanted to hear the record on its own merits, and not against the unreasonably high standard of American Idiot. And now I feel like a perfect moron for expecting anything less than brilliance.

21st Century Breakdown doesn't rival American Idiot; 21st Century Breakdown trumps it in every respect. Subjectively, I prefer the new "rock" singles ("Know Your Enemy" and "21st Century Breakdown") to "American Idiot." I think they're smarter, and more inclusive, and more fun as listens. Its featured ballad "21 Guns" is a more complete song--and a more daring vocal--than the admittedly great "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." Melodically, it could be "Boulevard's" sequel.

For all the Clash comparisons Green Day's earned, invited, and rejected over the years, the last two albums sound more musically influenced by earnest, operatic pop bands (Queen) than political punk outfits. In fact, those disparate influences form one of the most rewarding aspects of the record: 21CB is somehow aesthetically consistent as a record while varying wildly song-to-song. For example, a string of songs at the album's center seem to be songwriting exercises. There's the Hives-esque garage rocker ("Horseshoes and Handgrenades"); a Jack White-style campy, baroque melody ("Little Girl"); a stutter-stepping emo anthem, complete with My Chemical Romance-style cheers and pointed descriptions of "white boys and fat girls" ("East Jesus Nowhere"); several falsetto melodies ("21 Guns," "Before the Lobotomy") that sound more conventionally akin to Switchfoot or even The Fray than Green Day. It's as if Billy Joe is taking on every challenger to the throne, one at a time, and pummeling them into submission. The achievement isn't that Green Day can out-perform other bands with their own tricks; it's that they can put all of these songs together on a wide-ranging concept album, and still make the whole thing sound like a Green Day record first.

American Idiot held a stance, loaded for bear, took aim, and beautifully, mercilessly mowed down all opposition; 21CB does more by letting everyone, including the opposition, in. It aims as high, and it achieves more. And if I wrote my March Madness now, I'd have to reconsider the winner.

It's that good.

The Avett Brothers, I And Love And You
There's a lesson to be learned here: great pop music can take any form. While Green Day openly wants to be the biggest band in the world, the Avetts seem perfectly comfortable maximizing their niche. They have no Billboard hits--and may never--but they'll always increase their audience with their brand of smart-yet-accessible, rootsy-yet-contemporary pop. This isn't just their finest collection of songs (something that shouldn't surprise any fan of Rick Rubin), or their most mature production (see the last parenthesis); it's their most generous. It strikes the same tone (strength-through-vulnerability, earnest, selfless, proudly optimistic) that characterizes the best of Big Star, Counting Crows, Elliot Smith, Wilco, and, most of all, REM. This is a record that wants to give a lot to the listener, and it has a lot to give.

Pearl Jam, Backspacer
For a Pantheon pop-rock band, Pearl Jam sure does take a lot of listens. It's hard to fathom--and easy to forget--but Pearl Jam's best work has always taken some time to sink in. Retrospectively, how could anyone not hear the obvious, effortless brilliance of "Alive" upon Ten's release? The album languished for a year until Nevermind kickstarted the Seattle explosion. Why, when I began buying records for myself, did I not realize that so many of my favorite 90's singles were made by the same band in the same three-year span? How did I, a young and very casual pop fan hear "Glorified G" in 1993 and "Not For You" in 1995 but not know which band they belonged to? Yield might be my favorite album on the planet to listen to, but my first listen yielded no returns (pun fun!). I can't imagine ignoring "Save You" now, but I did at first. Pearl Jam's deeper cuts seemed unremarkable in 2006, and essential in 2009.

You get the picture: something about this band (Eddie's melodies, Stone's riffs, something else, everything else) sneaks up on you. Your first impression--even if it's good--will not be your sixth impression. Pearl Jam records are a fluid thing.

They're also a deeply personal thing. As I've written before, no band will probably mean more to me than Pearl Jam, because they're the band that mattered the most at the age where music mattered the most. While I can hotly anticipate and subjectively appreciate a new Green Day record, I don't feel invested in it. I receive, and I react. With Pearl Jam, their development as a band is somehow inextricable from my development as a fan. When they take an artistic turn, I explore new territory as a listener. They shape what type of fan I will be to other bands, and future records.

So I avoided the sneak-peeks of Backspacer as they appeared across the internet. I dodged the single downloads and the talk show appearances. I wanted to hear it all at once. Then, I wanted to hear it five times before I reacted. And now that I've lived with this album for almost six weeks, I can say that it's very good. It's a record Pearl Jam fans will be proud of. It's a record Pearl Jam fans will in no way be disappointed by (except for the lunatics who object to Target). It stands on its own, and it stands tall. If this was their first album, Pearl Jam would be catapulted on its singular merits. If this was their last album, I think I'd be satisfied with their swan song.

Because of its smaller scope, quirky moments, dark rockers, and casual confidence, a friend initially compared it to No Code. Citing its thematic and lyrical departure (deeply introspective, interpersonal, and narrative) and meditative tone, another friend considered it a "new Yield." I think they're both right: the album's tone, casual production, and mid-level consistency are sonically reminiscent of the tough-loving No Code. In terms of thematic departures, it's the first major shift since the spiritual awakening of Yield.

I'd ultimately rank Backspacer above No Code (the songs are stronger) and below Yield (the songs are weaker). Which puts it in in my Top 5 Pearl Jam records. Which makes it better than practically everything else.

One more note: in the spring of 2008, I greatly anticipated the new Black Crowes, Counting Crows, and My Morning Jacket releases. All disappointed me to varying degrees. The Black Crowes didn't have their fastball anymore, and MMJ seeemed to only have their fastball. Most depressing, by far, was the unmitigated failure of CC's Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings. Of the three billion things that went wrong on that record, the first (and biggest) was this: they experimented in a way that ignored all of their strengths.

And what I'm trying to say is this: Pearl Jam knows their strengths (lovable rock riffs, rock solid rhythm section, soaring choruses, song-serving musicality, and EDDIE), and they're still smart enough to use them. Even when they want to try something new, they use their strengths as the starting point for experimentation. If Eddie wants to tell a new type of story and experiment with a string-arrangement ("The End"), they let his voice and the band's talent for nuanced performance lead the way.

Backspacer might not be their greatest record. It might not match the renaissance of Yield. But it's really, really, really good. And as long as they're together, and playing to their strengths, they have more greatness in them.

Monsters of Folk, Monsters of Folk
Given my unrelenting mancrush on all things My Morning Jacket and Jim James, you'd think I sought Monsters of Folk the second it was on the market. Somehow, I didn't. It passed me right by. Maybe it was the timing, mixed with my move and temporary internet shortages. Maybe it was my distaste for most of the Conor Oberst catalog. Maybe it was my extreme apathy toward every M. Ward song I've heard. Maybe I just forgot.

When my brother was kind enough to send a copy, I expected:
--A spare, acoustic neo-folk record
--Something that sounded sunny and vintage and autumnal
--To truly love one song and like a few more
--That all of those would be sung by Jim James
--To ignore pretty much everything else

The lesson, as always: I'm an idiot.

Monsters of Folk is nothing I expected, which is totally rewarding. While some melodies and arrangements are familiar, and some arrangements are more acoustic and spare, and some songs are vaguely "rootsy," the message is sent in the first second of the first song: this is not a folk record. It's not even a "folk record" in the modern, revised, deconstructed, and polished vein of Mermaid Avenue. It's really just a collection of songs, most of which are good, and a few of which are very good.

Beyond the collection of songs, it's a collection of talent--talent that collaborates in ways I didn't expect. My favorite melodies--always my gateway to song infatuation--on this record are sung by Conor Oberst. My favorite lyrics are sung by M. Ward. Oddly, my favorite Jim James vocal moments appear in the background ("Losin' Yo Head" being the romping exception). Maybe the most impacting song on the album is its least "folky," the surreal and haunting "His Master's Voice."

Monsters of Folk is practically nothing I expected it to be, and almost everything I want it to be. It's a great reminder that some of the best listening experiences are unexpected.

It still feels good to be wrong.

Lucero, 1372 Overton Park
The time between the pre-order for this record (mid-summer) and its actual release (October 6) seemed to last years. The time between the actual release (October 6) and its arrival in my mailbox (October 16) seemed to last decades. In the interim, I hid from friends. I hid from reviews. I refused discussion of the record. I wanted to sit in silence and wait in the dark. And I waited forever.

1372 Overton Park was worth the wait.

When Rebels, Rogues, and Sworn Brothers came out in 2006, I reviewed it in this space. It was a breakthrough for the band. Sonically, Rebels expanded their sound by adding keys' legend Rick Steff and a more polished production. In terms of songwriting, Ben Nichols made another leap; the lyrics were sharper, more structured, the hooks catchier, the scope bigger, the tone more epic. It leaned on the best of their influences (Springsteen, the Replacements) while staying true to their own unique vision. It was such a strong, exuberant, inspired record, I worried that it would be their best. I worried they might've exhausted their magic.

I shouldn't have worried. If you liked anything about Rebels, you will love everything about 1372 Overton Park. I don't like this record because it's very good, and I don't like it because I'm a long-time fan and I feel invested at this point (I think you know by now I'm hardest on my favorite bands). I love this record because it's truly, legitimately, unbelievably great.

Two aspects of this album have dominated its press:
1) This is Lucero's true major label debut. What's that mean for "nobody's darling" underground rock heroes? Will the weight of expectation crush them?!? Oh no, oh my!
2) There are horns. Wait, what? Horns? Christ! What will the fanboys think?!? Oh no, oh my!

Of course, the critical consensus is that:
--This is Lucero's best album.
--The horns work and the album wouldn't be the same without them.
--This will be on every critical short list for "Album of the Year."

And what to make of those two points, anyway?

1) This is Lucero's major label debut. Yeah. They're ready. They could've gone one of two ways. They could've shrunk, reverted back, played the "lovable loser, star-crossed ne'er-do-well" angle and cut a bunch of Attic Tapes sequels. Or, they could've continued their evolution as a big, bad, popular rock band, seized the opportunity, owned it, and taken what they've rightfully earned on the road for a decade: real success.

They chose the latter. And after seeing this last week in New York--touring with a horn section, keys player, and lap steel guitarist--they're not looking back. At all. They were exceptional live, simultaneously polished and thrilling, sharp and spontaneous, epic and intimate. They're the best they've ever been, and they're the biggest they've ever been, and while that's somewhat surprising for Lucero fans, it's also great.

2) Horns. Aside from my personal love affair with all horn-related things and all music therein (including Memphis's legacy there), why would anyone object to an instrument outright? Would anyone? While there are certainly "superfans" out there who are put-off by the idea of Lucero with an expanded (read: poppy) sound (more on that in a second), I'd love to meet the music fan who read a press release that said "Lucero, now with horns" and said, "screw THAT." I don't think they exist. Ultimately, the horns work because the songs support them; in turn, the horns serve the songs. They're not just supplemental; they're essential.

Here's the section where I'd love to gush about each song individually, and perhaps I will at another time. Suffice it to say that half of my favorite Lucero songs of all-time are on this album, and that I have a new favorite every day, and that there isn't even a relative weakness, and that I can't stop listening to it. If you're reading this blog, you're probably inclined to like Lucero anyway. I doubt I need to sell it, and it certainly sells itself.

I will say that one strength of the songwriting is that it should only expand the band's audience. These songs are so pitch-perfect, so perfectly tuned into their audience while becoming more accessible to a broader audience, that there's something for fanboys and sorority girls alike. Sure, the horn line's a far cry from the dueling acoustics of the Attic Tapes. But "Mom" isn't a far cry from "It Gets the Worst At Night." It's the same band--just exponentially better. There are albums that have one song for everyone, and there are albums in which every song has something for everyone. 1372 is the latter. It's the best kind of populism.

I re-read Nick Hornby's Songbook last week. In one essay, he struggles with the idea of his new favorite song becoming everyone's favorite. What once belonged to him--his own musical secret--suddenly belonged to everyone. "How is it possible to love or connect to music that is as omnipresent as carbon monoxide?"

My friends have struggled with the same issue regarding Lucero, their most recent success, and their ever-expanding fanbase. "What would you do if you saw a thirteen year-old twerp at a strip mall tomorrow wearing a Lucero t-shirt?"

This question is asked and answered by music fans from a specific time and place (Memphis, this decade, watching Lucero come through the ranks), but could be asked by anyone, anywhere who has ever loved a local band. We follow them. We root for them. We chart their successes, we note their failures, we gobble up every release, and we anticipate every concert. We argue and agree with each other about their prospects and their achievements. We sing along.

Beyond that, we invest. The band's story becomes inextricably linked to our own. In the same way all music criticism can be read as autobiography, the band's success or failure can run parallel to our own successes and failures. And when the band reaches a level of success where a kid can show up in their t-shirt and overlook the life before it, we take it as an insult to us, our investment, and our life. These people skipped the process and went straight to the payoff.

Well, here's my story: I happened to hear a Memphis band named Lucero in 2002. My brother recommended them to me; his friend recommended them to him. Relative to Memphis scenesters, I was late to the game.

I heard Tennessee, then heard the two releases before it. I thought they were making some smart, gorgeous, sleepy, accessible alt-country. I loved their songs. I went to shows. I went to shows where I was 10% of the audience. I went to shows that were drunken farces. I watched as the fanboy contingent formed. I watched as they continued to put out records, as they developed a bigger sound and scope. I watched as the crowds grew. I watched as they created a trainwreck stage schtick, almost a piece of self-destructive performance art. I worried it would compromise their development, that they were creating their own ceiling. I heard "Sixteen" and thought they'd broken new ground. I saw them being better musicians live, and I saw the crowds double. I read the press. I rooted like hell for a major label deal and some real promotional backing. I wondered how big their audience would get if they actually had some business behind it. I waited for them to get their live act together, and their partying under control. I watched as the fanboys got rowdier. I listened when Rebels came out, and I worried that would be it. I heard the rumors about SXSW, about the Black Keys supporting shows, about every opportunity seized or slipping by. I wrote about their struggle with the underdog persona, and what it means to be a failure in the face of success. I watched all of it from the front row of bigger and bigger venues, all while they kept making music and that music kept getting better. And what I'm trying to say is this:

I hope to God I see that thirteen year-old twerp at the strip mall. I want to see a million of him. I've had my time with Lucero, and it ain't going anywhere. Let that kid have his time. And let Lucero have theirs.

They've earned it.

-----------------------

P.S. Next Week: Songs for November!

Brooklyn, Take Me In

Subtitle: Haunted and Hogtied by the Avetts

I've gotten some questions about the avalanche of good music released recently (from Green Day, Pearl Jam, Monsters of Folk, now Lucero, etc.). Don't worry: I'll cover them all very shortly (Mailbag teaser!). Suffice it to say that sometimes--through time, effort, hunger, drive, and opportunity--you find good music.

Sometimes, the good music finds you.

Such was the case with "I And Love And You," the title-track to the new Avett Brothers record. I'd long heard good things about the Avett's but hadn't ever heard anything by the Avett's; through a lapse of judgment or sheer stubborn laziness I never pursued them myself. When I heard their major label debut would be produced by Rick "I Should Be Knighted By Now, Or Something" Rubin, my ears perked up. When I heard a snippet of a sleeper track in my friend's living room, I noted the production and hustled home to pack. The Avett Brothers were setting me up--jab, jab, jab--for the knockout right cross and I, as usual, was oblivious.

Three days later, I sat in my family's living room, having just left Nashville and about to fly to New York. I turned on Letterman because I always watch Letterman when I'm in Arkansas. Back home, I watch my TiVo-ed programs around talk-show time, but I have no TiVo-ed programs in Arkansas. So I watch Letterman happily and wonder why I don't do this every night in every city.

Suddenly, there were the Avett Brothers, here to perform "I And Love And You" off I And Love And You. For a guy on the eve of his to New York, hours removed from a long and heady drive from Nashville, it was like Letterman was broadcast from inside my unconscious. I really wondered if I was dreaming.

I can now safely recommend the entire album, which is consistently solid, always listenable, and periodically great. But "I And Love And You" is a remarkable song that chased me down, grabbed my heels, tripped me up, and swallowed me whole.

Sometimes the music finds you. I never stood a chance.

The Avett Brothers, "I And Love And You"


So what music have you found this fall? And what music has found you?

Tell the ones who need to know,
CM