Tag Archives: music

Seven Years of Bad Luck

Most of my friends (and, subsequently, most of my readers) are probably aware that I was laid off from my job with no warning last week. I won’t bother taking the time to rail about the SUPER AWESOME ECONOMY right now, as people with actual mortgages and kids are undoubtedly feeling things even more thoroughly than I am. However, in the immortal words of Martin Lawrence:

It’s hard to know what sort of culture to turn to when you’re feeling sticky and depressed and just generally unhappy as all hell. As I rode the 10 bus home a mere half an hour after disembarking it for my office, the music I kept hearing in my head was the tinny tin-pan clacks of Modest Mouse’s “Wild Packs of Family Dogs”: My father quit his job today / Well, I guess he got fired, but that’s okay. 

At that moment, I think I really did want the dogs to come and take me away. 

I put on the album, to distract me from my sniffling self and from all the people who were staring at me. And I listened to that song, and it was just as hollow and painful as I remembered. I wallowed in the sharp sting of recent memory, fingered my meager severance agreement, wondered what I would do next. The album kept playing. And through the fog between my ears, I could hear Isaac Brock singing: It’s our lives / It’s hard to remember we’re alive for the first time / It’s hard to remember we’re alive for the last time. The album I had put on to wallow in had grown up and gotten perspective without me. And even though I’d heard “Lives” a million times before, it seemed to have come to me in that moment, irrevocably right. 

Music does that to you sometimes. The things you put the favorite song or record on for, hoping to achieve a bit of catharsis, don’t always touch you the way they’re supposed to. And new meanings fall out of things previously parsed, like fruit from the top branches of a barren tree. There’s no doubt that we listen to music in order to complement our emotions: miserable songs and singers for moping, ebullient ones for the best days, loud punk to fuel our workouts and soft jazz to put us to sleep. But I wonder how much of our instincts are also drawn there to unconsciously listen for the part that gets the better of our intentions, whether it’s the sadness and vulnerability behind the screeching guitars or the piercing trumpet that breaks the piano lull. 

So my hope is that my life will be more like my albums: even at the dark moments, the track inevitably changes. Brighter things, or reminders of them, are always lying in wait. And the things you think are stable, for better or for worse, will always possess the power to surprise you. 

Besides, if you could be anything you wanted, I’d bet you’d be disappointed, am I right?


Synthesizing the 80’s

The two albums that have been getting a lot of play on my iPod lately are M83’s Saturdays = Youth and the soundtrack to Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!, appropriately titled Awesome Record, Great Songs! On the surface level, these albums are pretty different: one is a moody, subtle work of pop-electronica, while the other is…well, it’s a collection of silly songs from a TV show. But they’re both raising a really interesting question for me: what are we going to do about the 80’s?

I mean, yes, in some senses, the 80’s are over. We’re approaching the 30th anniversary of the beginning of the decade, and times have certainly changed since then. Yet the decade of decadence maintains a bizarre hold on our consciousness. The simple example is all the women I still see in Jacksonville with side ponytails and Day-Glo shirts with pictures of kittens. Then there are the ubiquitous 80’s nights at clubs, with the accompanying Flashdance-style ensembles. But there’s also a kind of strange collective memory around the time. It boomed like the mid-to-late-90’s, but it was so much more egregious about that success. Everything that happened was saturated and celebrated.

And even though we acknowledge the excess that defined the whole thing, we’re also oddly rapacious to have the kind of recognition the decade gave us. Especially if we were born as products of its aesthetic, and are now growing up in the aftershocks. I myself come from quality yuppie stock. My parents were high-level corporate executives in blocky power suits. They tried sushi. They bought furniture from Crate and Barrel. They bore children named Alexandra and Mackenzie. Hell, my mom is still hoping that if she just waits long enough, puffy hair and shoulder pads will finally come back. (“My shoulders aren’t broad enough otherwise,” she often notes.) My parents’ truncated record collection, which ends abruptly after 1987, contains a fair share of their 70’s rock/folk favorites, but once you hit 1980, the sound is all smooth jazz and synthesizer. And they didn’t even buy many records at that point in their lives.

For the folks about ten years younger than them, I can only imagine what it must have felt like to come of age then, especially musically. Unless you were a dedicated anachronist or a member of an underground scene, synthesizer was just the way popular music sounded. If you went back to 1985 with your Mr. Fusion and took a poll, they’d tell you that synth was just the direction the history of music had taken, that we’d crossed over into new technology and weren’t planning to go back. (Then, they’d probably play you a few bars of “The Power of Love”.)

Both of the albums in my rotation right now try to deal with this history, albeit in different ways. Saturdays = Youth, as its title implies, is all about nostalgia. Take “Kim & Jessie,” the album’s most compelling track. Its lyrics are sad and nostalgic, about the ephemeral nature of time and teenage escape. Yet the driving synths, the keyboard overlays, and the other 80’s touches add a driving force to the song: it feels tough, resilient, over-the-top at times. It seems to suggest that the memory of the celebratory, decadent 80’s has overwhelmed its moments of vulnerability– a major assertion of David Mitchell’s equally wistful Black Swan Green. At the same time, however, “Kim & Jessie” poignantly suggests why teenagers are so attached to music: it adds sweep and grandeur to the tiny disappointments of their lives.

Awesome Record takes an even more layered route to understanding 80’s nostalgia. I think Tim and Eric’s show has been so reviled by so many people because its essential comedic premise is really, really obscure, to the point of meta. The show is not content to parody 80’s tropes; it wants to parody how people absorbed and used (and frequently mis-used) them, and what a strong hold they still seem to have on the national consciousness.

Consider, for example, the fake song “Come Over,” which appears with literally no context on the show. (Sorry for the link, WordPress is refusing to embed Adult Swim’s video player for some reason.)

So this clip is funny on the level of straight parody of the 80’s, right? It has karaoke, which was big then, and the weird whitewashed images that appeared in karaoke video tracks. But then it adds an extra level, because the adaptation is obviously pretty failed: the song is way too explicit about what “coming over” means, to the point of being gross, and the woman in the video is really old and overweight. Hell, the woman isn’t even singing correctly: it sounds like she’s having a bad run at the local bar, circa 1987 or so.

Or take this one, the most strange of the show’s various “Kid Break” segments.

So the initial 80’s parody is all of those weird PSAs targeted at kids: that’s the silly music, the weird graphics that are done in that “chalkboard” font, the obvious grown-ups in their kiddie outfits. But again, there’s the second layer: like “Come Over,” the song is way more revealing than it should be, to the point of being embarrassing. And when the display shows it was paid for by a government initiative, it’s almost like an over-the-top edition of the “diversity” PSAs of the late 80’s– do people who sit down when they pee really need a champion to keep them from being discriminated against?

The fact that both of these albums are of such recent vintage, but so clearly obsessed with the implications of the 80’s, suggests that the vogue of obsession with that decade is not over (try as VH1 might to burn us all out). Is it nostalgia? Is it embarrassment? Is it a longing for a world in which everyone was kind of a big deal? I guess you could say it’s a mix of all these things, a synthesis of all things synthesizer. Until we’ve really seen it for what it is, however, I wonder if we’ll ever get over it. Unfortunately, to paraphrase Thomas Hardy, you can’t go back to the future again. Unless one of you folks has a flux capacitor handy.