RUN, DEVIL, RUN...FROM LOVE

As promised, Confessors, today marks the beginning of the new fiction serial on Live Journal, "Romeo May be Bleeding, But Mercutio is Dead."

Though it takes place some time after The Everlasting, it doesn't contain anything that will "spoil" events in that story; it does, however, serve as a nice introduction to the character of Lance Scott. The old tricks he is up to here are not dissimilar to the ones he gets up to in the novel.

So, go, read, enjoy.

And feel free to let me know how I'm doing.

Current Soundtrack: Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins

Current Mood: flirty

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

PERMANENT RECORDS: NO VENDETTAS, JUST A CHERRY BLOSSOM TREE

Permanent Records is a year-long project. Each Friday (or thereabouts), I will post a new entry about one specific album, chosen due to its significance to myself as a fan. Though the list is numbered, a particular record's placement should not be considered a ranking. There will be 52 albums in all.

This endeavor is based on a concept started by Chris Tamarri at Crisis/Boring Change. It has since been expanded as a concept, as Neal Shaffer takes on a study of album covers over at Leftwich.

23. MANIC STREET PREACHERS - THIS IS MY TRUTH TELL ME YOURS (1998)
Personnel: James Dean Bradfield, vocals & guitar; Nicky Wire, bass & lyrics; Sean Moore, drums
Producers: Dave Eringa/ Label: Virgin.

I find it interesting that This is My Truth Tell Me Yours is the Manic Street Preachers album that would end up being the one to bring me so much inspiration, because it's not my favorite by a long distance. It's better than any of the records that followed, but it's easily beaten by the four discs that preceded it. In fact, This is My Truth Tell Me Yours is the sound of a band at its plateau. After that initial rise from punk upstarts to accomplished musicians, this is where they became journeyman: dependable more than surprising.

My previous public statement on the album was one of unfettered enthusiasm. I reviewed the album for the Willamette Week back when it was released, and given the opportunity to couple it with Suede's Head Music, I was not going to drop the ball, I was going to kick it in the stratosphere. I don't think the review was dishonest, as I was pretty enthusiastic about both albums when I wrote it, but time and perspective now show me that these bands were continuing their parallel paths of triumphs and defeats. Both albums belonged together because the bands had recorded contents that were settling.

A statement that sounds harsher than it really is. Because there is still much to be gleaned from a life in stasis, and unlike Suede, the Manics had found a place that was comfortable. Their plateau was up high, and from it they could survey much. Suede's was in a lower, darker place, a triumph of squalor...but that's another review entirely.

Or, at least, this is the conventional wisdom on the record, the easy and accepted line on Manic Street Preachers Album #4. It's a bit ironic, however, when you really sit down and listen to This is My Truth Tell Me Yours. While the instrumentation relays the sound of a band treading water, of riding the muscular shoulders of previous accomplishments--look at them there on the cover, in a desert dressed in white, all surface and no feeling--at the nitty gritty of it, when you listen to the words straight up, there is no contentment at all. Take the song "My Little Empire." It arrives in the sixth slot, after the four singles are out of the way, coming in quietly on a soft guitar riff, midtempo drums, a distant cello. The opening lines: "My little empire has risen and it's set/ My little empire is as good as it can get." If this is a record by a band who has built their kingdom, they are not actually happy with what they survey, whether they are looking down from a plateau or a castle tower. They have been set adrift, disconnected from all sensation. "I'm sick of being sick...I'm tired of being tired...I'm bored of being bored...I'm happy being sad."

Whatever you might say about the band post-fame, post-Richey's disappearance, post-"A Design for Life" going mega, I don't think you can say they accepted it easily. Consider this: the Manics were a band at their best when they had something to fight against. On Generation Terrorists, it was the current state of music; on Gold Against the Soul, the expectation of what they had created; The Holy Bible, Richey's body and the demons inside; Everything Must Go, Richey's disappearance and the insistence that the Manics were over.

In each case, the group had won the fight, and now here they were, the conquerors, their original muse gone, no longer poking them with his problems and the betrayal long since forgiven. If This is My Truth Tell Me Yours opens with a cannon blast, with all the hits, it's a brave face. There is an impish grin behind placing "Ready for Drowning" in amongst them, and then following it up with "Tsunami" and its happy melody distracting from the desperation of the lyrics. Is either song a capitulation, an acceptance of the deluge? All that's left is ennui, and maybe the trio is going to just let themselves go to it.

Or is maybe "My Little Empire" a clarion call to what's really going on? Maybe all that's left for the Manics to fight against is themselves. They see what they've become--and on their first single after the album, the millennial one-off of "The Masses Against the Classes," singer James Dean Bradfield unleashes a wail of Camus, "The slave begins by demanding justice and ends by wanting to wear a crown"--and they aren't ready to let the trappings of fame suffocate them. Arguably, This is My Truth Tell Me Yours isn't the sound of treading water, but of being under it, trapped in a bag, and thrashing to get out. From "My Little Empire" on, lyricist Nicky Wire is identifying his problems in order to muster the strength to deal with them. Look at the cluster of songs that come immediately afterwards. "I'm Not Working" is an expression of despair over oneself breaking down, whereas "You're Tender and You're Tired" is an argument with that self, trying to see where the pieces are disconnected and rejoin the parts. "But it's too late to be real," Wire writes, perhaps alluding to the famous "4 Real" incident, where his lost comrade carved those words in his arm with broken glass (was it that? or a knife?) in order to declare his sincerity. That's a youthful need, this insistence of one's own authenticity. If you have to tell people you're real, you're clearly not. That's what Richey would ultimately learn, and what Nicky would try to rectify. "Never say goodbye drift away and die" could easily be a coda about his missing friend, his new declaration being, "Yes, you can build yourself." He's telling himself as much as he's telling the listener and the ghost of Richey James. He doesn't have to succumb to another invented disease.

The solution seems to follow on the next two songs, "Born a Girl" and "Be Natural." They are about recognizing how he's allowed himself to stray from who he is at his core, whether it be through the imagery of gender politics or by allowing himself to become this martyr to the media. "Be natural for once in my life," Wire tells himself, "Know that I should never give advice." He ponders whether he is "grown up or backwards born," is he finally coming into himself or has he had the process backwards, he has started at one place, lost it, and is now struggling back. It's a Romantic ideal, one my hero Lance Scott could get behind in The Everlasting--but more on that in a bit.

It's not all inner turmoil either. There are outside forces. Even though they could be interpreted as metaphorical other selves, there seems to be threats beyond Nicky Wire's control on the melodramatic strum of "Black Dog On My Shoulder" (the lyric "Guess my life is a compromise" hearkening back to Mansun's "Life is a compromise anyway") and the poison pen relationship of "Nobody Loved You." The search takes on urgency even as he once again almost gives up. "Am I coming home to you again/ Or am I stupid just by design?/ Does it matter if you really ever know?"--as if by no longer asking, you'll end the need. The feeling that there is some void that needs to be closed is a recurrent one on the album, the word itself showing up in "The Everlasting," "My Little Empire," and "You're Tender and You're Tired." The second half of This is My Truth Tell Me Yours is the sound of that void. It's slow and it's turgid at times, because it's trapped in the swirl.

Thus, it's fitting that the guitars that ring through the first half return on "Nobody Loved You." Once again, this is a song striking out against either someone you love or yourself, perhaps both, they are one in the same--either way, the amps being kicked on are the warning that the Manics are bouncing back. "S.Y.M.M."--despite its compromise in the title, going with the abbreviation rather than the full "South Yorkshire Mass Murder"--is the band bringing it full circle, standing their ground again. The lyrics explain themselves: "But it's really not the sort of thing/That people want to hear us sing." The new Manics fans have gotten used to a more personal lyrical approach, not the political Manics. It's safer. They want more "A Design for Life," anthems they can sing while drunk and miss the meaning of. Sure, they made This is My Truth's debut single "If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next" a top hit even though it was about the Spanish Civil War, but it was a subversive message. If the band didn't tell everyone it was about the Spanish Civil War, most of the radio listeners would have never known. But "S.Y.M.M" puts it all right back up front, puts it in your face so you can't hide from it, the sort of overt effort to make the listener queasy that scared people about The Holy Bible. Sure, the promise would not be fulfilled until the sharp electric stab of "The Masses Against the Classes" over a year later, and then it would pretty much disappear on the next couple of records, but as This is My Truth Tell Me Yours winds down, the Manics do make you believe the return to form is coming.

So, yes, ironic that this is considered the album where Manic Street Preachers began to tread water. Even I had started to convince myself that it was the mark of a band who had become overly content. Look where I began this entry and now where I have ended up. Now I see it more as an album from a band trying to find contentment. It's that restlessness that curdles in the fuzzbox of second single and lead album track "The Everlasting," and what I picked up on when I named my second novel after it. Lance Scott is looking for some contentment, too, and he's fighting against his own wayward ideals, trying to find his way back. "In the beginning, when we were winning, when our smiles were genuine"--it seems so obvious now as being more than about a relationship, it could just as easily be a band looking back over their shoulders at an incendiary early career that has drifted into undreamed of success.

I stand by the original assessment that the Manic Street Preachers were a band at their plateau, but I'll change my belief that they were commenting on all they surveyed in favor of my new assertion: they were looking for a way to get down so that they might live up to the Alfred du Masset quote they put on the "Children" single: "Great artists have no country." I'm not sure if they've found it yet, but they keep trying, and they still have more good albums than mediocre, even if just barely. The drowning may still be coming, but at the same time, they have a chance to make it work. There's plenty to fight against these days, so maybe they'll pick up some new weapons for album #8.

#26 #25 #24
(The first 26) (Permanent Records iMix 1)

Reminder: As always, this post is full of links to Amazon. Click on any one of them when shopping, and Amazon will shave a few pennies off their take to give to me. So, if my reviews make you all hot and bothered and you just have to own one of the things I'm talking about, use my link and contribute to buying me more stuff to review. (Those reading a Live Journal feed will likely have to click to the actual blog page first before heading over to Amazon, though.) Either way, thanks for reading.

Current Soundtrack: Manics, "The Everlasting" CD1, "Tsunami" CD2, & the "God Save the Manics" EP

Current Mood: thoughtful

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

GOOD LOOKING MAN ABOUT TOWN

I can finally move on, having done a rapid detox by writing up my con experience. DVDTalk: "King of the Nerd Prom: Comic-Con 2006."

I do so love this photo.

It's pretty cool that they let me do this. DVDTalk has a lot of traffic, and people who may not normally stumble onto a comic book site and find coverage of the comics scene can end up seeing this. I made the report as link heavy as I could so people's stuff could get seen. It's also mainly business, with most personal anecdotes being left out, so it's by no means comprehensive. I saw so many people at the show, I'm not even going to begin to try to shout-out to you all.

But, as promised on my e-mail list yesterday (and if you want on, drop me a line, though the blog really covers the same territory and does so way more often), I do have one story that amuses me that I want to share:

I entered the Hyatt on Saturday night and was instantly set upon by Martin G., who was all in a tizzy. He said that a certain Artist We Know (let's only name the guilty) had spotted a beautiful blonde walking through the lobby with someone Chynna Clugston and I knew. Chynna had confirmed that this woman was not attached to our friend, and Martin had decided that he and I were going to go do reconnaissance and talk to her about this situation, find out what the scoop was for AWK. I agreed for some reason (too many Greyhounds?) and as we walked to the bar on the far side, Martin informed me that though this was his hair-brained scheme, I was to do all the talking.

We find the people in the bar, and we get our friend to make an introduction to the Blonde. I ask her what she does, her connection to comics, etc., and as I do, I realize that there is no map to the small talk that will carry us from this to the question at hand, and so...

JAMIE: Screw it, I'm drunk. I'm going to cut to the chase...I have a question for you.
BLONDE: Okay.
JAMIE: A friend of ours--you probably don't even know who--saw you walking in the lobby. He doesn't even know we're here, but he thought you were stunning. If he was to come over to you and maybe start talking to you, would you be open to someone doing that?
BLONDE: [hesitates]
JAMIE: If not, that's okay.
BLONDE [maybe blushing, maybe creeped out?]: No, I'm with someone.
JAMIE: No problem then.
MARTIN [leaning in, pointing at me]: Isn't this guy smooth?

At that point, I was embarrassed. Yeah, right, dude. That was real smooth. We said our good-byes and exited. "So," I asked Martin, "which of us do you think she assumed we were asking for?"

On the way back, I thought we agreed that we would tell AWK that we only spoke to our male friend and not her, and he said she had a boyfriend. I thought that would make it seem less weird for him, like he wasn't even turned down by her. But as soon as we arrive, Martin walks right up to AWK and shouts, "We talked to her, and she has a girlfriend!"

A girlfriend?

Okay, Martin's gay, so maybe we can give him a pass for not knowing, but that's not what you tell a straight guy. Hello, can you find a stinkier cheese to wave under the mouse's nose? You're just going to excite him more.

Later I conferred with the friend of the Blonde, and he said yes, she was suspicious if it was one of us, but she was somewhat flattered and would be moreso to find out it was genuine. I didn't think to ask if she had lied about the boyfriend. Not that I'd blame her. I'm just curious.

AWK is also the one who said to me at the show, "I like you. You show up for your signing and you're already half in the bag." He also claims the incident confirmed everything he had heard about me, which is a little scary if you think about it.

Sadly, the next night, AWK spent a good amount of time chatting up another girl until Martin and boytoy Ian Shaughnesexxy stumbled in and totally cockblocked him. I didn't get an explanation as to what they had done, as they had gotten half in the bag themselves and proceeded to fall through the bottom of it, but maybe Ian can post in the comments section here and let us all know.

Also, Ian gave me the coolest thing I got at the convention, though his mother had imported it straight from Japan for me, it wasn't a con purchase. I had never seen one before. This very cool Holly Golightly doll:

Current Soundtrack: Primal Scream, Riot City Blues

Current Mood: finished

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

TO END THIS VOID: THE EVERLASTING ON SALE TOMORROW!

I had thought that Oni was holding the actual book release until late August, but The Everlasting is going to start showing up in some stores tomorrow. It was on Diamond's shipping list, so you comic book folks should look for it; it may take slightly longer for bookstores. I'm very excited to hear responses, and I hope some fast readers can post some reviews on Amazon as soon as they allow it. (And anyone want to post one for the poor, lonely I Was Someone Dead?)

The Oni site's page for the book has a five-page preview and a small jpeg of the final cover design:

My full con report will go up on DVDTalk overnight, and I'll post a link when it does, as well as an anecdote I left out (it was more business, less personal for their site). I had a good time. Reaction to everything overall was great, but the star of the show seemed to be Joëlle Jones' 12 Reasons Why I Love Her pages. Everyone was flipping out.

I have some buttons left over, so if you want to buy any, e-mail me through my address below.

Current Soundtrack: James Dean Bradfield, "That's No Way To Tell A Lie" (both CDs)

Current Mood: pleased

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

THIS FFFIRE IS OUT OF CONTROL

Only two days left. More photos here.

PERMANENT RECORDS: FUCK THIS AND FUCK THAT, FUCK IT ALL AND FUCK THE FUCKING BRAT

[Due to the San Diego Comic Con International, this week's Permanent Records is being posted two days early. Better to be ahead of a deadline than miss it. Cheers!]

Permanent Records is a year-long project. Each Friday (or thereabouts), I will post a new entry about one specific album, chosen due to its significance to myself as a fan. Though the list is numbered, a particular record's placement should not be considered a ranking. There will be 52 albums in all.

This endeavor is based on a concept started by Chris Tamarri at Crisis/Boring Change. It has since been expanded as a concept, as Neal Shaffer takes on a study of album covers over at Leftwich.

24. THE SEX PISTOLS - NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE'S THE SEX PISTOLS (1977)
Personnel: Johnny Rotten, vocals; Steve Jones, guitars; Sid Vicious, bass; Paul Cook, drums
Producers: Chris Thomas & Bill Price/ Label: Warner Bros.

Let's face it. There's not much originality in teenage rebellion. The way I did it, the way you did it, the way some kid tomorrow is going to do it--it's almost always along some line that is completely hackneyed and cliché. We scream out in tones all too familiar to the ears of history regardless of how daring and unique the intent of the scream was.

It's only fitting, then, that when I decided to stick a flag in my own independence, I chose to play the Sex Pistols album in the background. (And let's face it, when I call it "the Sex Pistols album," it's because it's really the only one, all shameless cash-ins aside.) Just look at the name of the band. It has the word "Sex" in it. Their music must be naughty, and it surely will piss off my parents. It's not a terribly unique choice, nor is it the most leftfield selection for this list.

Amusingly enough, I hardly knew anything about the Sex Pistols when I bought the cassette of Never Mind the Bollocks. Would you believe I had first heard of them when they got a mention on the TV show "Alice"? Alice's son had tickets to see the band on their tour through Arizona (did that ever even happen?), and you guessed it, Alice is shocked that there would be a rock band with such a name. Surely I couldn't have been the only kid in America who was drawn to this lightning rod via a television sitcom?

I had already basically discovered punk. I owned a Suicidal Tendencies and an S.O.D. record by then, and kids I hung around with listened to a lot of different thrash-type bands. We should be straight, though, I was not a punk. I was never an anything. I was always sort of skating around edges of things, picking and choosing, noting places where I could link up the frozen ponds. My real rebellion, in this essence, was against being assimilated into any one group. I was me, and me I'd stay.

My dad got married a second time when I was fifteen. I wasn't really down with it, but it worked in my favor when they bought a house that had an add-on in the garage that was converted into my bedroom. I was a part of the house, but separate. You had to go through the garage to get to me. In this spirit, whenever there were family activities, I would find a way to weasel out of them. I'm a good weaseler, and so I was on my own a lot. Thus it came down that everyone else was going on some kind of vacation for the weekend, and I was staying home.

Back up a few entries and look at the picture of me in the Depeche Mode rundown. That was how I had my hair cut through most of high school. It was really the beginning of where I am now, it was only a matter of time before both sides were standing up and I was James Dean in my Ferrari careening over Mulholland Drive (even if only in my head). (And actually, that was a day out in the desert, my hair looks to have failed a little. It's not as high on the left side as normal, and the crest of the bangs in the middle is not as Ocean Spray logo as I preferred.) On the home-alone weekend in question, what you see in that picture was my base to work with.

I had an idea, see. I was going to dye my hair. No grand revolution, to be sure. Teenagers act out in this way every day. The only thing I can even try to make a claim to being more creative is how I was going to do it. I was just going to dye the sides and the back: solid black all around. No, I was probably not the first, nor would I be the last, but at least I narrowed the playing field some.

Never before had dye touched my hair. I was extremely naïve about the process. I figured you just bought the bottle and put it on, easy peasy. Granted, with black dye on blonde hair, it is pretty much that easy--unless you factor in the handling of the dye. It stains everything, as I would soon discover.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Then again, it's not like no one can guess what I'm going to say.

That's right, when I went out and bought the hair dye, I also bought Never Mind the Bollocks Here's the Sex Pistols. What a thrill it was to be in the upstairs bathroom pouring chemicals on my head while the Sex Pistols blasted so loud from the downstairs stereo, I could hear it all the way up there. My suburban neighbors must have been so frightened to see our house trembling under the throb of the album's mighty guitars!

Because it did feel mighty. Sometimes things get the reputation they deserve, and that is certainly true with Never Mind the Bollocks. How can an adolescent brain resist a record that opens with jackboot marching and the declaration, "A cheap holiday in other people's misery"? It can't, of course, and once again, that is why all teenage rebellion is the same. It's no coincidence that "Holidays in the Sun" is the name of the first chapter in Cut My Hair.

Listening to Never Mind the Bollocks was another one of those epiphanies. Where had this music been? Why was I not in tune with it? Feeling like a misfit, unloved and misunderstood, songs like "No Feelings" and "Liar" and "Pretty Vacant" were instantly understandable. "Anarchy in the U.K." and "God Save the Queen" weren't about the country I lived in, but it didn't matter, authority was authority. And "Bodies"--oh, God, "Bodies"!

Forget the loud thrash of the guitars, the snarled lyrics that the old folks didn't have a chance to understand, "Bodies" was something I didn't think anyone could ever do ever. A song about abortions? And how many times did Johnny Rotten say "fuck"? Had my dad and stepmom realized they had forgotten something and been forced to turn around, to come home and step into their abode while "Bodies" was blaring, I'd have been disowned then and there. I had no clothes on, pungent acid in my hair, and I was running around the house screaming, "She don't want a baby that looks like that!"

Which was how I got black hair dye everywhere. I think there were flecks of it on the carpet in nearly every room. I got some on the kitchen curtains. It was on the walls. It had never occurred to me that if it was permanent on your head, then it must also be permanent on other surfaces. That shit is impossible to get out. I think that's what my stepmonster was angriest about: I had messed up her stuff. My father didn't like what he saw, nor the obvious attempt at doing something wrong. When he noted I didn't have his permission, I responded that I also didn't not have it, either. Everyone is Aristotle at sixteen.

Of course, my revolt was neutralized when I was informed that when next I wanted to dye my hair, my stepmother would do it at her salon. She was a hairdresser, after all, and now that it was done, that particular cat was out of the bag and sitting firmly on my skull. I didn't fess up to owning the Pistols, though, so that little plastic rectangle remained subversive. I didn't need to declare it, it would be contraband.

Even if I had marched around triumphantly displaying it for everyone to see, however, I don't think they could have sucked the power out. It's been nearly thirty years, and the establishment hasn't neutralized it yet. Some tortured teenage soul in the middle of nowhere is logging on to the internet as we speak, and he's going to download Never Mind the Bollocks. This display of open warfare on the adult world will be all the more wicked for the fact that it's not available on iTunes, so he (or she) is going to have to procure this particular dirty bomb illegally. I'm not normally an advocacy of piracy, but screw it. The kid's being punk rock. He's breaking the mold that millions of other kids smashed a million times already, but just like all of them, our boy feels like the very first one. That's what makes all the difference.

My hair is the gate to Hell

#26 #25
(The first 26) (Permanent Records iMix 1)

Reminder: As always, this post is full of links to Amazon. Click on any one of them when shopping, and Amazon will shave a few pennies off their take to give to me. So, if my reviews make you all hot and bothered and you just have to own one of the things I'm talking about, use my link and contribute to buying me more stuff to review. (Those reading a Live Journal feed will likely have to click to the actual blog page first before heading over to Amazon, though.) Either way, thanks for reading.

Current Soundtrack: Pharrell Willaims, In My Mind

Current Mood: stressed

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

PART OF THE QUEUE

For those of you who like to plan ahead, here is my schedule for San Diego:

ONI PRESS (booth #1934)

Wednesday Night Preview
6:00-9:00 (though, if it's slow, the bar may beckon)

Thursday
1.30-2.50
4.30-5.50

Friday
12.00-1.20
4.30-5.50

Saturday
ONI PANEL - 10.30-11.30
12.00-1.20
6.00-6.50

Sunday
10:30-11.50
1.30-2.50

It's T-minus 3 days at this point. I haven't started putting anything in suitcases yet, as that would mean several days of a brooding, cranky cat who may take revenge on said suitcase. I have started piles, though. There's one pile for clothes, and one for things I know I need to take, such as my sketchbooks, the buttons, etc. I also have a list of things that need to go but are currently in use, like the charger for the phone, etc.

This week's Permanent Records is written, so there is a good chance I will post it Tuesday night and thus not have to worry about whether I can get online once there--though, I will try to post, especially if some of the news that may be announced at the show does get announced (things I am not in control of the timing of--how is that for ominous?). All my DVDs are currently reviewed, and I'm over halfway through a new manga volume that is due on 7/29, putting me ahead of the game on that. I don't want to spend the week I am back playing catch-up. In the next two days, Joëlle and I will go to Kinko's and make copies of 12 Reasons pages to have with me, and I think that's about all I have left at this point.

Bring it on, nerds. I'm ready!

Current Soundtrack: Paul Weller, iPod set to "Play All"

Current Mood: sore

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

THEY COULDN'T STOP JACK, OR THE WATERS LAPPING

Somehow, amidst everything else, I managed to do four new, fairly in-depth reviews for DVDTalk last week:

* Bastards of Young, a new documentary on current punk (sometimes called "emo")

* A Canterbury Tale, by Powell & Pressburger - my first Criterion for DVDTalk!

* Is It Really So Strange? - a documentary about Morrissey's Latino/Hispanic fanbase in Los Angeles

* Tristram Shandy: A Cock & Bull Story, starring Steve Coogan, directed by Michael Winterbottom, adapted from Laurence Sterne

I'm pretty happy with this batch. It appears I will also be doing a con diary for the site. We're just a handful of days from the big nerd prom. I have no date, but I plan to spike the punch.

Current Soundtrack: The Who, Then and Now...

Current Mood: gloomy

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

PERMANENT RECORDS: THE NATURE OF UNCARVED BLOCKS IS HOW TO DESCRIBE WHAT'S HARD TO DESCRIBE
(Or, I'm Emotionally Raped By Jesus)

Permanent Records is a year-long project. Each Friday (or thereabouts), I will post a new entry about one specific album, chosen due to its significance to myself as a fan. Though the list is numbered, a particular record's placement should not be considered a ranking. There will be 52 albums in all.

This endeavor is based on a concept started by Chris Tamarri at Crisis/Boring Change. It has since been expanded as a concept, as Neal Shaffer takes on a study of album covers over at Leftwich.

25. MANSUN - SIX (1998)
Personnel: Paul Draper, vocals & rhythm guitar; Dominic Chad, guitar & backing vocals; Stove King, bass; Andi Rathbone, drums
Producer: Paul Draper & Mark "Spike" Stent / Label: Parlophone

NOTE: This is written specifically about the UK edition of this album; the North American release is inferior, with its tracklist altered and cover changed.

At the beginning of "Inverse Midas," the fourth song on Mansun's sophomore album Six (lots of numbers here), Paul Draper softly croons over a lilting piano riff, "Everybody helps me make my own mistakes/ If I'm left alone I'd make them anyway." Guitarist Dominic Chad has provided his cohort with a marvelous lyric, and it's given particular import by Draper's dramatic delivery, more lounge bar than bedroom pose. It's not really passing the buck in the first line, he takes personal responsibility all the way. It's just that at the same time he's willing to acknowledge that people are shit and more often than not drag you down.

It's also a pretty strong entry point for an album that has been and will be misunderstood, debated, kicked around, loathed, and loved. The British quartet was striking pretty far out on its own with Six, exploring the vast terrain of ideas in their collective heads and leaving nothing untouched. If at any time the band was going to live and die by their own merits, it would be on this album. Yes, they could fall under the weight of personal error, but that gave them as much right to crow about any success they pulled from it. To my mind, that success was large.

The placement of Six in this series is interesting to consider. It's part of a cycle of three. If the Dashboard Confessional EP So Impossible can be held up on one end as a high example of simplicity in approach, than Love's Da Capo is the middle. That record has an A-side full of short, straight-forward rock songs, while it's B-side is the long, ambitious, and challenging "Revelation." Dashboard leads into Love, Love leads into Six, which is like the principles of "Revelation" stretched across an entire CD. There is nothing simple or straightforward about Six, except maybe the notion that nothing is restrained. There are thirteen tracks, but without staring at the display on your player, you're not always going to know where one ends and the next begins. The tunes don't so much stop as fold into the song that follows, and quite regularly, within one song there are so many change-ups you're going to think you've moved on until Mansun somehow finds their way back to the beginning. It's almost like a Rube Goldberg-approach to songwriting. You won't be sure where the egg will roll next, you just take it on faith that it will somehow end up in the frying pan.

Before you even crack the wrapping on the jewel case, you know that Six won't be easy. The cover is so full of references, it would almost take its own book to explicate. A stained-glass window with a design of a unicycle, dancing Victorians, the backend of a zebra, Winnie the Pooh, chess--just to name a few. Front and center are several books lined up on either side of a man in a blank mask reading from a tome that contains the lyrics to Mansun's song "Legacy," but the words begin to fade out at the end of the page. Could it be that they disappear as he reads, or one word materializes as he reads the one that precedes it? Inside the booklet, on the first page and the last, the band reproduces the books from his table at a larger size so we can read the spines. Stack one, which is laid flat, has something called Life is a Series of Compromises (later referenced in the title track), 1984, the autobiography of an actor who played Doctor Who (Tom Baker, who also does a bit of voiceover on the album), the Marquis de Sade, The Book of Mormon, and a book called The Bible Code. The second stack has the books standing up straight: The House at Pooh Corner, a misspelled version of Dianetics (the title and author name altered as a comment on their fraudulent nature or to avoid litigation?), The Schizoid Man, Paint It Black (a Rolling Stones bio, perhaps?), and a volume with no title at all.

Here we are, not even into the music yet, and we are overwhelmed with references, wondering what it all means. Is there something to be said about why one stack is lying down, and one standing? Are we even supposed to be worrying so much about it? Could some of it be more obvious than we want to give Mansun credit for? I know that guitarist Dominic Chad, who looks a lot like the mythical lost Rolling Stone member Brian Jones, bought Jones' old house which also happened to be A.A. Milne's home, so could the Pooh and Stones books merely be a nod to that?

In any case, as I said, the cover is serving as signal that Six is intended to be a puzzler. And yet, to say it's not easy is actually a bit off, I think. Yes, it's not particularly simple to sort out everything Draper is blathering about, but at the same time, it's not a terribly challenging record to enjoy. The real magic trick of Six, for all its abrupt time signatures and overloaded lyrical content, is that it's an absolute pleasure to listen to. I never get the sense that they just got lucky, that a shift in sound was a happy accident, or that the car might go off the road, that the band will lose the plot any second. Mansun are in complete control throughout, and the key to getting Six is not wrestling against it. You should listen to it almost like you might listen to one of Brian Eno's ambient records: sit back and let it move over you. Be active in it, but don't fight it. Musical body surfing: between waves, float, and when the waves come, ride them.

By that token, I'm not going to try to map out the lyrical journey of Six. If it would take me a whole book to dissect the album cover, it would take me two more to deal with the words inside. (Handily, Draper and co. have structured the record into two parts, along with the interlude, "Witness to a Murder," the song spoken by the ex-Dr. Who. Another ode to the evil of humanity, it begins, "All my life/ What I mistook for friendly pats on the back/ Were really the hands that pushed me/ Further and further down." I know. Hate people much? Yet, strangely true....) Find me another album where the lyrics contain references to the Jabberwocky, Stanley Kubrick staging the moon landing, Confucius, the Shroud of Turin, Marx, almost every book previously mentioned, and pay-per-view television. I dare you.

So, side-stepping the actual words, what are we left with? Emotions. Sensations. Six may be a heady brew, the product of four boys sifting through their intellectual miasma, but they don't trip over their own brains on the way and forget that it's also about heart. Music is feeling. What's confounding, however, is that it's really one emotion. There are no love songs on six, no happy songs, nothing about your mum or the rain or sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. The musical approach is all over the place--we have melancholy washes on "Legacy," the short punk spikes of the first part of "Being a Girl," the desperation of "Shotgun," classical references on "Fall Out", the wailing of "Television"--but the thematic intent is unchanging.

Here the books become handy. What a lot of the titles have in common is that they indicate a search--for oneself, for childhood, for freedom, for a new kind of kick. The ones not mentioned in the lyrics are good keys. Orwell's 1984 provides the sense of doom, the satellites that attack us in "Serotonin" and the authority we bow to in "Six," that something is watching us--and maybe the first stack of books is flat because they are set, whereas the second stack is standing because that's where the movement is. The blank book is the one we write ourselves once we escape from being The Schizoid Man. In searching for our place in the universe, we are conflicted and contradictory. We are an individual, but our legacy is "a sea of faces just like me." In "Fall Out," Draper denies questioning anything in one verse, speaks of philosophy in the next. We are masters of our own destiny, but we are the inverse midas that turns gold to shit, and sometimes it's the rest of the world that shoves us along (and as on "Television," sometimes it's our TV). In "Negative," "...things are closing in on you/ Not so far away as they may seem."

And, of course, the pinnacle of the desire to change oneself is the epic final track, "Being A Girl. At 8:00 minutes, it gives Love's "Revelation" a run for its money. I am a man, but I feel like "being a girl, and my life never tasted sweeter." The contradictions aren't over. For life being sweeter, we're also told "A frog it cannot comprehend the sea/ Nor me happiness," and the last new lyrics of the song (and the album) are the enigmatic lines, "Never been informed there must be poor/ Or the rich won't be rich no more." For all the confusion, though, there is a sense of the schizoid man sorting it all out. If I can acknowledge that there is this otherness to me, maybe I can join with it, redefine myself, put my title on the blank spine of that book. Certainly there is a bit more sarcasm and irony to "Being A Girl" ("And I judge myself by the adverts I see/ My deodorant hides the real me/ These things elevate me above animals"), we're freed from the heavy shit to be the person we think we are.

The back cover of Six is the same masked figure from the front, but now he is in a smaller room, in his bed and pajamas, watching his TV (which we know is evil, but still, it's late, so give a poor man a break). The image from the front is now a memory, framed and hung on his wall. He may be alone, but it's more tranquil. There is no ceiling, and behind him is the sky and the moon (is Stan K. up there?). We can rest content in our possibilities. In front of us is the world, is TV, the things we may abandon, but now we know we can.

Or, Mansun have pulled a big prank and delivered me an album that's full of shit in order to trick me into writing long pieces on it that show me being full of shit, as well. It doesn't matter, because I'd win anyway. The biggest freedom we have is the freedom to be as full of as much shit as we want to be.

That, my friends, is what elevates us above animals.

NOTEABLE B-SIDE: On the second part of the "Legacy" single, Mansun have slid in a clever little joke of a punk song. "GSOH" is a continual repeat of a personal ad, woven around phones ringing and distorted conversations. Despite the main demand being a good sense of humor, the punch line comes at the end of the ad: "Looks aren't important, must have a photograph." Which, on the third time through, tapers out on a scream, as it becomes "fucking photograph." It's a light-hearted song, a display of a good sense of humor all on its own, and a nice counterpoint to the gravitas of Six.

(The first 26) #26

Reminder: As always, this post is full of links to Amazon. Click on any one of them when shopping, and Amazon will shave a few pennies off their take to give to me. So, if my reviews make you all hot and bothered and you just have to own one of the things I'm talking about, use my link and contribute to buying me more stuff to review. (Those reading a Live Journal feed will likely have to click to the actual blog page first before heading over to Amazon, though.) Either way, thanks for reading.

Current Soundtrack: Love, Four Sail

Current Mood: content

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

BUT WHILE WE'RE BOTH WANDERING, WANDERING LOST, WHY DON'T YOU COME WITH ME?

What a rush of days it's been. I'm writing you before the drinking commences. A Trilogy customer bought me a bottle of champagne. This is the sort of luck I've been having. "You're doing what? A book? Have some champagne!"

See, I had stopped into the store to tell Terry Blas about this great new comics shop that's opened in the Northwest, Floating World Comics, where I had just dropped some cash on a long-desired run of the original THB series by Paul Pope. I used to have them, but an ex-girlfriend absconded with my set, and this is the first time I've seen them for a decent price ($80!). It was my gift to myself, for the same reason that Scott Birdsall bought me champagne.

James came by today and dropped me off the first copy of The Everlasting. I don't even begin to know how to describe the elation this elicited. It's a gorgeous package. Oni really did an incredible job on it, from the cover all the way through. The paper is a gorgeous white, and the font looks exactly like Cut My Hair. It's a thick, substantial book. If you had one on you and someone tried to mug you, you could beat them back with it. No lie.

Anyway, this is the culmination of six years of work--longer if you consider all the time I've had it in my head. I couldn't be more thrilled with the results, couldn't have asked for a better support system to get it out. If you buy it, please take the time to read the acknowledgements in the back. You'll see how many people have been there along the way.

As if that weren't enough, if you really want to know why my head is spinning, I also finished the next book--or, at least, the 1st draft. It's still going to need some major work, but having the whole thing shaped out, that's the hardest battle. But, as of 4:22 a.m., Tuesday morning, 7/11/2006, I typed the final # # # at the end of Have You Seen the Horizon Lately? This is a major accomplishment for me if you consider I started it on June 24 of last year. This means it took only slightly more than a year to do, something I've never done before. It's 91,000 words and despite some plot issues, has some of my finest writing. It's been a harrowing tale to concoct. I actually have a scar on my arm from one particularly bad night a couple of months ago that caused me to put it down for six weeks or more. Fate stepped in once The Everlasting went to bed, though, and all of my deadlines moved out of the way. I had a lull in the manga, and Joëlle and I agreed that it would be best for me to wait to work on our script for You Have Killed Me until she's done with 12 Reasons next month. Plus, as Birch and I were winding down on The Everlasting, Percy and Julia kept creeping into my head.

So, I read over what I had, declared it good, and picked it back up. When I saw the end was in sight, I couldn't stop. I'm particularly happy to have done it just before its predecessor came off the presses. I can say I finished Horizon before The Everlasting was done! And, I'll be able to go to San Diego and tell people, "Yes, the next book is done, and if Oni will still have me, it will be out the same time next year. The cover will be by Joëlle Jones."

(For the record, I only just ten minutes ago discovered that there is a Yoko Ono song called "Have You Seen A Horizon Lately." My book is named for the Geneva song, "Have You Seen The Horizon Lately?"--and I'm sure there is a big difference. And that would be this Geneva, not this one, for chrissakes.)

Once I am back from Comic Con, the focus is going to be on comics. The manga work will begin again, and I want to knock out the next two scripts for Love the Way You Love. Then it's Killed Me and maybe finally This is the Way the World Ends for Chris Mitten if he's ever available again. I don't know where I will go next with the prose. We'll just have to see. It'll probably be good not to worry about it until I've got Horizon all fixed up anyway.

But, yeah, yay me.

It's funny, because a rather young female customer who comes into Trilogy and busts my balls all the time asked, "What are you hiding from?" I inquired what she meant, and she said, "You work in a video store, you watch a ton of films, you're a writer, you're obviously hiding from life." I laughed my ass off at this. "Honey, I'm living life!" I know what hiding is, I wrote the book on it--twice. I'm in the thick of it, and I'm loving every minute of it.

If I Could Watch Anything I Wanted Right Now: A Guide for the Married Man - directed by Gene Kelly, starring Walter Mattheau! How have I missed this until now? I have to see if someone has it locally.

Currently Reading: Immortality by Milan Kundera

Current Soundtrack: My Latest Novel, Wolves

Current Mood: queen of the world

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

I'M BRINGING SEXY BACK

Love the Way You Love is given the honor of Best of the Week at the Fourth Rail!

Here's a sample: "In any case, Love the Way You Love is, above all else, about Love at First Sight. Its appeal may depend on one's ability to buy into such a concept... or it may be so well communicated here that it could convert even the most cynical readers."

Apparently there was some snafu last week and not all west coast stores got the book. I am assured that this was fixed with the shipment for this week, so all of you should be able to find it with no problem.

Recording went great yesterday, writing of Have You Seen the Horizon Lately? has taken on a renewed fervor, and James e-mailed to say we could see the first copies of The Everlasting as early as this coming Tuesday. Just when I thought things couldn't get any better for me at the moment, I found a $10 bill in the street last night. Be careful, Icarus! It's summer and the sun is hot!

Current Soundtrack: Johnny Boy, "Johnny Boy Theme;" Justin Timberlake, "SexyBack"

Current Mood: why, yes...sexy

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

PERMANENT RECORDS: DO YOU, DO YOU LIKE DREAMING OF THINGS SO IMPOSSIBLE?

Permanent Records is a year-long project. Each Friday (or thereabouts), I will post a new entry about one specific album, chosen due to its significance to myself as a fan. Though the list is numbered, a particular record's placement should not be considered a ranking. There will be 52 albums in all.

This endeavor is based on a concept started by Chris Tamarri at Crisis/Boring Change. It has since been expanded as a concept, as Neal Shaffer takes on a study of album covers over at Leftwich.

26. DASHBOARD CONFESSIONAL - SO IMPOSSIBLE (2001)
Personnel: Christopher Ender Carrabba, vocals & guitar; Dan Horner, guitar
Producer: James Paul Wisner / Label: Vagrant

It's easy to be dismissive of Dashboard Confessional. Then again, it's easy to be dismissive of anything. To take a dismissive stance is to distance yourself from something, and it's much harder to stand up close and be engaged. Coming from someone who has waved his hand contemptuously more times then you've likely scratched your own ass, banishing something from my sight that I don't deign to give anything more, you can trust me--this is one lesson I've learned.

Dashboard have become the whipping boy for this "emo" thing that was all the journalistic rage a couple of years ago. It's all bullshit now, though, as these days all you need do is shed one crocodile tear, and self-important connoisseurs will dismiss you with the emo tag. It doesn't even have to be a real tear anymore, and it doesn't even have to be music. I think there is even an emo video game.

Even when it meant something, it's hard to say whether it really did. Was it genuine? Was it a marketing ploy? Was it just a name the mean kids gave to the other kids to be assholes, pretending that they themselves had no albums by Joy Division, the Cure, et. al? When it meant something, it was about young music fans who weren't afraid to feel, who wanted a cathartic experience when they put on a record. Sure, that stance could be just as much about hiding from real feelings as refusing to be emo(tional), but I'd posit that it's a much more difficult fake to take.

Christopher Carrabba, the man who really is Dashboard Confessional, became the poster boy for this movement. Though he plays with a full band now (and emo purists shout "Judas!" the way smelly hippies shouted at Dylan) (yes, I was just dismissive of folk fans and hippies), Carrabba originally came on like a punk rock folk singer. He played an acoustic guitar and he sang lines that were too fat for any one mouth, both literate and heartfelt, his cross laid bare on his tattooed sleeves. If he became the eye of the shitstorm that swirled around emo as bloggers flung themselves at the wall of hipster credibility in hopes of getting a sweet gig writing for Pitchfork, it was because Carrabba refused to separate himself from his fans. Like Morrissey before him, he combed his hair incredibly high and let his followers walk through the forest of his bangs as he told them, "I am one of you." His live shows are famous for being sing-a-longs, desperate and lonely kids coming together around a modern campfire where they know every words and no one shuns them for being off-key. Granted, I'd never go to his shows because I pay to hear the band, not the audience, but you still have to respect it. It's better than the old Moz days of cracked actors hurling themselves at the master and pretending they weren't imbeciles; at least here we have respect for the music.

Which is a long intro to the So Impossible EP. In this tiny burst--four songs barely cresting fourteen minutes--Carrabba has not only distilled the Dashboard Confessional experience into a perfect capsule, but he has also captured the experience of teenage romance with an unmatched honesty and eye for detail. Essentially a concept album, it's the chronicle of one date, from crush to proposition to nervous preparation and ultimately, the fireworks of first love.

"For You To Notice..." is the realization of one's own desire. The song begins with some looped guitar, a little feedback in reverse, as the moment comes into being, the idea takes hold. It's a wonderful aural trick, a ten second flash of sound before the delicate strumming that will mark the rest of So Impossible. It's the instant where you see her across the room and her face comes into focus, and you just know. "I'm starting to fashion an idea in my head...."

The song is the contemplation of making your feelings known, of trying to muster the courage to let the other person know you have love to give. It is full of doubt, wondering if you can make the words come out the way you intend, and also the bravado of self-belief that only a good crush can inspire: "And you'd want to call me/ And I would be there every time you need me/ I'd be there every time." It's brave, and yet it has cowardice, as we are still at the moment where we can only stare and hope. Even so, since we go out on the same line as we came in--"I'm starting to fashion an idea in my head"--and since the title itself has an ellipsis, we know this is just the start. It can happen.

"So Impossible" sweetly brings it together. It's the girl that proposes the party, so somehow the dream happened, she noticed you the way you noticed her. How perfect is that? There is still some anxiety, some skirting around the issue. She suggests each bringing a friend, you pretend it's no big deal even as the possibilities of the impossible run through your head. The mind swims with all the things that this opportunity can bring, the aspects of the other person you might learn--and the most impossible of all, maybe you'll both continue to like each other as much after as you do right now.

Once more, the tune rings out on an unfinished thought. If you don't put a period on any of this, it won't stop. "So, yes, I'll see you there..." Once that agreement is in, all you have to do is wait.

Which is "Remember to Breathe."

"Remember to Breathe" is a superb song. It's the rare expression of male fear in this whole dating game. You know in the movies how you always see the girl getting ready before a date, and the boy shows up all set to go? This is the flipside. This is the boy looking in the mirror, picking his clothes. "I try on my blue shirt/ She told me she liked it once." That line is like that adolescent cliché of "he's singing about me," because I have a blue shirt that a girl once told me she liked, and I have to weigh when I wear it, because I don't want to do it too much, I have to keep a catalogue of it in my mind because I don't want to be obvious about it and I don't want to cause the shirt to overstay its welcome. Present tense, past tense, don't worry about it, I'm playing off "Remember to Breathe." Carrabba pulls a neat trick here, shuffling between the boy's thoughts ("So sneakers or flip flops? I'm starting to panic!") (Oh, Chris! You shouldn't even own flip flops! Throw them away!) and the girl's ("She wonders what I'll wear/ She knows just what she'll wear/ She always wears blue"). Or is it him imagining the process she must also go through? The blue is a nice bit of symmetry.

The final minute and a half of the song, you calm yourself down, you psych yourself up. "Remember to breathe, and everything will be okay," with repeats of "okay" and "all right" like a mantra, like you're keeping yourself focused as you walk up to that door. In the lyric sheet, the "all right" comes with a question mark, like a final check in with yourself, and in the song you get the unprinted answer. The music is gone, just a spoken reply of "Okay."

That answer is given its full due in the final song on So Impossible. The first lines of "Hands Down" are "Breathe in for luck/ Breathe in so deep/ This air is blessed, you share with me." You've remembered to breathe and it's paid off. The entire EP is acoustic, just Carrabba's guitar backed by Dan Horner's guitar, and it's been soft up until now, but "Hands Down" picks up the pace, the nervousness gathering steam to become action, giving away to a sweeping melody as the connection takes shape. In the narrative, you lead your love away from that party, running off to be alone together. As one is wont to do in this blush of passion, every detail is a catalogued, the physical, mental, and emotional. You've broken away from the pack, from the staring eyes, and it's just the two of you and no one else in the whole wide world.

The chorus of "Hands Down" is the real winner. To hearken back to Morrissey, the sentiment is reminiscent of the Smiths classic "There Is a Light that Never Goes Out." Yet, instead of standing passively back, here we lean in, cross the seat of the car to give the kiss we never imagined we would. It inspires an overly dramatic expression, but these feelings are overly dramatic. Why else would we bother if they weren't? "My hopes are so high that your kiss might kill me/ So won't you kill me?/ So I die happy."

Yes, it's a wonderful twist of fate in that for once, puppy love works. Teenage romance no longer unrequited. Each song on So Impossible ends with a promise, ends with the belief that it will not end, you can have what you want, and it's the same as "Hands Down." You've wrapped your arms around the girl of your dreams, everything's in place, and it's only the first night, there is so much more to come. "And you stood at the door, with your hands on my waist, and you kissed me like you meant it/ And I knew...that you meant it." Carrabba sings with unbridled joy, letting his voice rise in volume and crack from the effort. This song is about elation, not holding back. Dashboard Confessional means it, too.

And again, that's hard. Not holding back, standing in front of your feelings rather than hiding behind a pose, and somehow making it come off well, that's a tough job. "Hands Down" and the rest of So Impossible could have been bad high school poetry put to music, overwrought and over rhymed, but instead Christopher Carrabba has taken a simple and direct approach, speaking plainly, his guitar picking unadorned. It's a dangerous gambit. It's going to get you kicked in all the too-cool-for-the-actual alternative weeklies across America. In "Hands Down," part of the thrill of getting away from the crowd is that without them looking on, the romance can be private, free of the stupid reactions of those who can't make real connections on their own, so it takes guts to have fashioned the experience into this gem of a record to share with everyone else and endure the taunts and the labeling and dismissive sniffs of lonely souls afraid to give it what you've given it.

The thing is, if you don't hike up your pants and take the chance, that girl will never be yours, and by the same token, if bands can't screw up a little courage to actually mean what they say, they'll never have a CD as perfect as So Impossible. Dashboard Confessional tried it once and they got the girl, and good for them for trying again and making a record that will soundtrack lonely bedrooms everywhere. As the chorus goes on their most recent single, don't wait to lay your armour down.

(The first 26)

Reminder: As always, this post is full of links to Amazon. Click on any one of them when shopping, and Amazon will shave a few pennies off their take to give to me. So, if my reviews make you all hot and bothered and you just have to own one of the things I'm talking about, use my link and contribute to buying me more stuff to review. (Those reading a Live Journal feed will likely have to click to the actual blog page first before heading over to Amazon, though.) Either way, thanks for reading.

Current Soundtrack: Dashboard Confessional, So Impossible, Dusk & Summer

Current Mood: ridiculous

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich

PERMANENT RECORDS #52-27

#52 #51 #50 #49 #48 #47 #46 #45 #44 #43 #42 #41 #40 #39 #38 #37 #36 #35 #34 #33 #32 #31 #30 #29 #28 #27

AREN'T I BETTER THAN A BOY WHO CAN'T READ?

Dear Confessors, I can't express to you the level of my excitement.

Tonight was the beginning of the recording of "Love the Way You Love," Like A Dog's song from the comic book of the same name. Lara Michell and I wrote the tune several months ago and have had a demo of it she did on garage band, but we've been waiting for things to line up so we could record the full version for release with the second volume of the comic. It's going to be in that issue when Tristan writes the song and performs it for the first time.

We're set up in a studio in NE Portland, and we're working with producer John Askew. Many of you may know John from his work with his band Tracker, who did the soundtrack to Craig Thompson's graphic novel, Blankets. John was an awesome find, coming to us through his work on the second album by one of Lara's bands, Dirty Martini. He totally understands comics, as well as the musical reference points we gave him (Phil Spector, the Smiths, shoegazing). He was into the concept that we would be covering the song as if it was a pre-existing track by a real band, and his input is really bringing it together. He's also playing bass.

John brought in a drummer for the session, and it was quite a surprise. I actually knew the guy from the days we worked in duelling record stores on Burnside, so I was shocked to see him. His name is Michael Schorr, and he beat the skins for Death Cab for Cutie for a couple of years before deciding to take a break from touring. This is the first thing he's worked on in a good long while.

Honestly, I spent most of the time just watching and listening. It was amazing to hear the three musicians sit down and launch into the song with little preamble. They'd all done their homework. Working out all the kinks in about an hour, John then put down a click track and had Lara record a scratch vocal. Sometimes, listening to them talk was like hearing a foreign language, the terminology was flying fast and loose. But when they were playing and everything was coming together, I swear it was like the end of a cheeseball movie where all the band memebers look at one another and smile. We were having such a great time!

Tomorrow we return to the studio and record the whole thing for real.

*

In other Love the Way You Love news, Chris Tamarri has given us a very thoughtful and engaging review for his Crisis/Boring Change blog. Read it here. SAMPLE: "More than anything, it reminded me of all those Billy Wilder/I.A.L. Diamond films where our hero and his objet d'coeur are too timid to break out of their own patterns to introduce a new, undeniably desired and predictably positive element into their own lives, where they're too scared of the change that new and potentially lasting love brings. That resonance could be because those pictures were explicit touchstones for writer Jamie Rich or because they're favorites of mine. Love the Way You Love seems open and classically minded enough that it could remind every reader of his favorite romance, whatever that might be and wherever from."

Chris earns points for digging up the Suede lyrics on his own; I'll make that boy popular with the other kids yet!

Current Soundtrack: The Walker Bros., The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine: The Very Best...

Current Mood: giddy

golightly@confessions123.com * The Website * Live Journal Syndication * My Corporate-Owned Space * The Blog Roll * "Can You Picture That?" * DVDTalk reviews * My Books On Amazon

[to leave comments, click on the time-stamp below, then scroll down on the new page] – All text (c) 2006 Jamie S. Rich