Range Life (Music. The Midwest. More.): 2008

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

It's Been a While...

So, it feels a little strange giving my first post in almost a month the same title as a Staind song, but... so it goes. So where have we been, you're probably wondering. Well, like anyone we get caught up in the day-to-day, and though we often talk about resurrecting Range Life, we've been putting it off. (Maybe we've all been doing a little too much of what you see pictured here...)

There's plenty of good music to get caught up on, and recent concerts to ramble on about, and some fabulous pics to share, and so forth. Still, before I do anything I need to rant about some of my most recent obsessions... some new, some old, all awesome.

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Thursday, June 26, 2008

Catching Up: Wakarusa Fest 2008

So while we haven't been posting much on Range Life, never fear, we're still obsessing over our beloved music (which may be WHY we don't post as much anymore). In any event, I thought I'd drop by and mouth off about some recent happenings.

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Monday, June 16, 2008

Finally -- A Tasteful Use of Good Music in Advertising

See what happens when someone is discerning about when and where to use their songs? Regardless of your feelings about the Grand Theft Auto series, you have to admit this spot was simply tailor-made to showcase this song. Wow.

Friday, June 6, 2008

"Nude" Performed by Technology

This one's self-explanatory... and awesome. The music starts at 1:10. The full story and a higher quality version of the video can be found here.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Gimme Fiction: Now Not Just the Name of an Incredible Spoon Album

So a while back I tossed around the idea of putting up another form of music writing on the site. I debated over it, talked it over with Ryan, and ultimately decided, why not? Let's call it an experiment.

Thanks, Josh, for making this graphic it's taken me so long to get around to using.

Enjoy, friends.

....................................................................................................................

Hideaway

By Nicole Pope

They ascended the stairwell he’d only glimpsed through swinging saloon doors all those years. The loft was little larger than his studio apartment. Writing crowded the walls as high as an outstretched arm, or stool, or friendly leg-up could suffice. The multi-apexed ceiling and dim lighting reminded him of the elaborate tents he and his band mates had made as children, just years before they’d started buying this band’s records.

He helped the drunk girl round the corner on her ridiculous wedge heels.

And there they sat like common human beings.

They had spread out the money on ancient twin amps. The expressions on their unshaven faces suggested kidnappers on the wrong side of a foiled ransom collection. In the center of the couch, like the king of thieves, sat their front man. Seeing them he stuffed the crinkled, paperclipped stacks into a bag, knocking half-crushed beer cans in his haste, and smooshed it between the cushions.

His right eye twitched like wings on a preening fly.

“Who are they?”

It made sense he would want to know something about them, as if he already knew this twenty-something in the frayed tweed jacket knew everything about him.

He knew what any real fan would know. The front man was the master-mind of the band: lead singer, guitarist, lyricist. He had a basic American male name nabbed from the Bible or a Beatle. He had been married once in the early ‘90s, which he had spoken about just once in a June ‘92 Spin article, after which he’d stated, “I’ve said what I want to say through my music.” He had never spoken about his bum eye. He had insomnia, which he blamed on constant touring, and when he did sleep he sleepwalked, though he never got far before tripping over a slumbering band mate or bonking his head on the combination microwave/mini stove. He never posed for publicity shots. Promoters were forced to use band photos from fifteen years ago, photos like those squishing in the young man’s pockets as he steadied himself against a pile of dead speakers. It was really him.

“They’re friends,” the drummer lied. He slouched at a lopsided wooden desk posing as their buffet table. “I can make them too, you know.”

His band mates quietly absorbed his petulance, the singer itching at the cap he wore for every show, the one detractors of the band said made him look homeless; his bassist crinkling the mustache he’d worn in the eighties that luckily had become fashionable again. Like aging lions, they were pissy but too tired to attack, tails twitching idly as they eyed their intruders.

Alcohol and a likely sorority background emboldened the drunk girl. She wobbled toward the couch and thrust out a hand marked with a big black X, the flesh still red from all that futile scrubbing. Surely they would remember her from the show even if their drummer hadn’t, the young man thought. The girl whose hairsprayed nest had bobbed wildly as she screamed ironies at her friends like, “Just listen to that subtle guitar work!” The one who’d turned the only song they’d played off their first album into a spoken word piece detailing an inexpensive, low-fat chicken casserole. They would slay her and eviscerate him, the boyfriend who couldn’t keep his dumb drunk girl quiet. Except he wasn’t her boyfriend. He didn’t know her at all.

The band recognized her, all right. To his horror they shook her hand hungrily, like she was the famous one. They thanked her for her energy during the show. Then they invited her to sit. He watched them soak her up: those dull blue eyes, symmetrical face, skin the texture and color of a well-worn drumhead. She was attractive, he supposed, in an obvious way that made her completely unattractive. Still he longed to follow her, delirious for that last spot on the couch, until his fingers became so bathed in sweat he could offer only a feeble wave from across the room. For years he’d dreamt of meeting the band, of telling the singer what their music meant to him, how he’d learned to play guitar because of him and formed a band because of him, and how more than anything he’d made him want to make something beautiful in this ugly world.

“Great show, guys,” was all he could say.

He slumped beside the drummer at the children’s table. His jacket adhered to his chest, suffocating him, like the drunk girl’s coif clinging to his cheek during the show. He could not, would not, remove the jacket and reveal he was wearing the band’s t-shirt. He dug in his pocket for the joint he’d been smoking before the show until that rent-a-cop circled the lot with his accusatory headlights. He knew no better way to relax, or to make friends.

With two fingers he pursed the roach like it was the vermin of the same name and raised it inquiringly. The singer regarded his bassist, his best friend since childhood, identical twin, or lover, depending on which rumor you believed. In the span of that silent second they exchanged two decades’ worth of hard lessons learned.

“Not in here,” the singer said.

“Sorry dude,” his bassist said, as surely as he’d backed him up on stage.

The drunk girl hissed in disapproval.

He couldn’t understand it. He searched the room for confirmation he wasn’t completely out of line. That was when he realized the cans resting in the cooler beside them, lying smashed atop amps, being poured down their throats at that very moment, were non-alcoholic. He returned the dirty, ugly joint to his pocket, being careful not to injure the photos waiting hopefully there, and apologized. It was too late. The singer was glowering at him. The drummer stabbed cheese slices with an intensity that suggested he knew he’d only pretended to own the drunk girl in order to get upstairs. His fear was confirmed when the drummer brought his boot down on his foot like it was one of those old, worn-out drum pedals you really had to punish.

The bassist jolted upright like he was the wounded one.

“Quick snooze,” he said. “Then we gotta ride the dog another fifteen hours.”

They all drooped into their seats like dying party balloons. For a moment they forgot the imposter in exchange for far worse frustrations. There was talk of a haunted light house when they reached the coast, which they wouldn’t have time for, and fresh seafood, which they would make time for. Until then, nothing but cows and windmills and fields.

For some reason he was starting to get defensive.

“Kansas isn’t that bad, is it?” he said. “I mean, we’re not all a bunch of hicks.”

They looked at him with genuine pity.

“Don’t get me started on Western Kansas,” the singer said.

“Hours and hours of nothing but fields,” the bassist said. “No offense.”

The two band members arched their bodies toward one another like mirrored f-holes on a violin, and they were lost to the room.

“Is it corn they have here?”

“Wheat.”

“No, wait. It’s sunflowers.”

“I’m pretty sure sunflowers aren’t…

“Their money crop?”

“Yeah.”

The fluidity of their dialogue, the way they plucked thoughts from each other’s heads, explained how easily they knew which bass line would answer a fledgling melody, which vocals could use the lift of harmony. The display was so impressive he could almost forgive them for using that crucial interplay to trash his home state. The drunk girl was not impressed. Nor was she used to being ignored. She pressed two beer cans to her chest like some sad take on Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour, as if Madonna weren’t already sad enough.

“Not everything’s flat in Kansas,” she said.

Somehow the singer laughed. So hard he choked on his virgin beer, and his bassist had to whack him on the back. When he recovered he said he was going to start calling her Dorothy. “You can be Toto,” she said. He laughed at that, too, and shook his head like a big dumb dog.

So quickly they clung to clichés. He told the band they needed to visit the local record stores before they left town. And eat at a café on Mass Street. And tour one of the mini art galleries. Lawrence wasn’t like the rest of Kansas, he said. It was a tree city. With culture. A liberal college town.

“Are you a student here?” the singer said.

All eyes targeted him. It was that twitching one he worried about, the one that spasmed a Morse code of displeasure whenever he spoke. The one he could peer into but could never be sure was looking back at him.

“No. I mean, I used to be.”

They did not ask him what he had been doing while he should have been in school. They moved on to the drunk girl, who announced she was majoring in journalism because her teachers had always said she used good adjectives.

“Journ-a-lists,” the singer said.

“May they rotteth in hell,” the bassist said. “No offense.”

They spoke of the last interview they’d given, the last the singer said he would ever give, after which the reporter made it sound like the band blamed its lackluster recent album on their long-time friend and producer. They fell silent then, as if newly stunned by the blasphemy. He watched their expressions sour and decided he couldn’t let the conversation die like that. He had to defend them, even if they wouldn’t do it for themselves.

“I knew you never would have said something like that,” he said.

The singer didn’t want to talk about that anymore. He bashed a crushed can against the table, marking out the staccato clang of his anger, and aimed his fluttering eye like a half-cocked weapon.

“How would you know what I would or would not say?”

No one spoke for a while after that. Soon the silence filled with whispers of the Top 40 filth the venue owner played while he closed up for the night. At last the drummer felt sorry for him and forgave the lie their past hour together had been predicated upon. He offered a swig from the bottle of ’87 bourbon he kept in his bag, and showed him the atlas he used to mark their travels. All their travels since 2001, he explained as the young man already knew, because that was when their old drummer had a baby and a religious experience and quit the band.

“Kansas isn’t so bad,” he said, completing the constellation from Denver to Lawrence with green highlighter. “I lived in Seattle for years. You have to tour constantly to afford to live there. Of course, when you’re touring you never live anywhere.”

He sensed the drummer was trying to explain something to him. He didn’t want to hear it.

Across the room the singer and his bassist questioned the drunk girl about her thoughts on the media bias. She kept saying “cover age” instead of “coverage.” He wasn’t sure the booze was to blame. While she and the drummer babbled on he closed his eyes and breathed in the wooden rafters above. They seemed to hold the smell of the stage below, of cigarettes and sweat and spotlights so hot they sometimes caught fire. He studied the walls and tried to separate the maxims of musicians from the ramblings of wasted groupies. Above the veggie tray a Spoon quote shone through the tangled mess: “How come I feel so washed up at such a tender age?” Beside it, some sort of retort: “Stay off the sausage.”

Within minutes the drunk girl was passed out on the couch. The bassist might have been asleep, too, though it was hard to tell under those big sunglasses. Stealthily the singer swiped the beer at the girl’s feet. He squirreled it away under his unbuttoned shirt sleeve, obscuring its telltale label, while he guzzled with the voracity and endurance of a master. It worked magic on him. He started chattering about other bands that were touring at the time, and how they all plagiarized Sonic Youth and each other, and how one band, he wouldn’t say which, had made a smart comment to him about fan loyalty that turned into a fight. He chanted a tribal dirge completely uncharacteristic of the band’s style and drummed on the side of the broken amp. To conclude his set he tossed the pen serving as his drumstick into the air. He watched it spiral toward the floor before rescuing it at the last moment.

Perhaps tiring of these antics, the bassist who was very much awake rose to leave. He paused at the top of the stairs and pointed a long, bony finger, the one he sometimes used to dedicate an upcoming solo. “You want me to clear them out?” he said. The singer looked at the girl lightly snoring beside him and, across the room, at his drummer, who’d dozed after first returning the bourbon to his tightly zippered bag. His gaze settled on the young man sitting beside his band mate at the buffet table.

“Leave them,” he said.

After he’d gone the singer began clawing at his cap as if plagued by some invisible pest. With a frustrated shriek he flung his cap on the amps amongst the crushed cans. The young man fought the urge to stare. It was not the singer’s motivations for tossing the cap that bewildered him, but what lay exposed after that simple act. Long gone were the locks that had shielded the singer’s face during those first years on stage, during that first time he’d seen them play, when he’d had to peek between the thick strands, like a peeping tom parting the blinds, to see what mysteries lay there. They’d grown up together in the eighteen years the band had toured the world. Now his idol was an old man.

Watching the singer smooth those willowy wisps he wondered why he hadn’t simply done away with it all like Frank Black. Michael Stipe. Billy Corgan. Perhaps foolish optimism had kept him from wielding the razor. Perhaps pride. When the singer seemed satisfied he’d tamed the mad scientist look he leaned forward and said, “So let me guess. You’re in a band.”

He felt out the statement’s jagged edges and kept quiet.

“What’s the line?” the singer said. “The song might be before your time. It goes, ‘What the world needs now is another folk singer like I need a hole in my head.’”

With those words something boiled over within him.

“We’re not a folk band,” he said. “And I hate that song.”

The singer smiled. “Me too.” He consulted an imaginary watch. He nodded to himself and stood abruptly, as if he’d just come to understand something. As if he knew this kid was waiting for him to say something more, something different, and he just wanted to climb in his van to wait out the night alone. The young man sprung from his chair. Despite his every instinct the photos burned in his pockets, urging him. His mouth opened and the words of a self-doubting school boy tumbled out.

“Do you happen to have a writing utensil?”

Shifting like he’d stepped on something sticky, the singer fished in his pocket for the pen they both knew he had. As the young man accepted it, their fingers nearly touching, he imagined the pen being used not only for impromptu drum solos, but to sign meal receipts. To fill out crosswords with confidence. Maybe even to sculpt the lyrics he would someday use to coax a woman into bed. No sooner had he summoned the courage to ask his next question, the real question, when he saw something that dissolved that impossible request on his tongue.

A subtle but unmistakable smirk was crossing the singer’s lips. A smirk that said, I’ve known what you’ve wanted ever since you slunk into our hideaway. You want me to bleed myself for you. And you made me provide my own dagger. All the young man could see was that smirk, and then, backing away, that torturous eye. So close, so far from the allure of the stage, it looked less magical and more what is was, medical oddity.

He mounted the chair beside the sleeping drummer. On tiptoes he reached a spot just big enough for the signature he’d practiced hundreds of times while listening to this band’s records. His own. When he climbed down the singer pointed to the drunk girl. Her teased bangs rose and fell with her breathing. Her unhinged mouth resembled that of a dead fish. She wouldn’t remember anything that happened that night.

“Will you take care of Dorothy for me?” the singer said.

His eyes were old and worried, like a father’s, even though the young man knew he wasn’t one. They left the drummer in the metal folding chair clutching his bag. “Serves him right for not sharing,” the singer said. Together they walked the drunk girl downstairs with her arms looped round their necks. He carried the heels that thumped along the stairwell, the singer his wimpy money bag. That sticky-sweaty hair smothered them both. When they reached his car the singer slipped something into his pocket. He patted it, cold and hard, against his chest. The pen. Then the singer saluted and, straightening his cap, stumbled toward his trailer.

And it was just him and the girl outside in the breezy night smelling of fermented wheat. She was awake and so much different now, but no less drunk. He piled her into his car. She didn’t know where she lived, so he drove in blind loops until she looked like she was about to pass out from all that booze and the joint they were smoking. He drove past the venue to see if her friends had come back for her. But Mass Street was as dark and quiet as its storefronts. So he pulled over so he could have sex with her in the parking lot behind the venue, the lights out, the lot empty with the exception of the sleeping tour bus, everything silent save the sound of his old car panting, gasping for air.

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Roadtrippin at the Gates of Gasoline Hell

So, ACL is releasing its festival schedule tomorrow, and I'm hoping the stars don't align. Why? Well, now that gas is threatening to cross that $4 threshold, can we just imagine what that 700-mile journey would cost (not including hotel and ticket prices)? What used to be a matter of hopping in the car and trekking across the country may now be a virtual impossibility for us music lovin' cool kids.

I know, it's so uncool to complain about gas prices. We're all getting nickled and dimed and dollared to death. I'm just afraid the roadtrippin' pastime might become a passed time, you know?

Really this is the only pump I feel like pulling up to these days.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

New Sigur Ros Album Due Out June 24 (Updated at 2 PM by Sonic Ryan)

...which means it should be available on your favorite bit torrent site any day now! Let's hope the new album is as balls-out (literally) as this album art.

And did I mention there will be one track sung in English? Does anyone else worry it might suck? Or maybe, it just will sound exactly the same? (Maybe the lyrics will be, "I saw you... I saw you... I saw you...")

Now I must return to ransacking my house for the SR tickets I held in my beloved hands for one day before losing them. If any Olathe garbage collectors happen upon them, I will reward you handsomely for their safe return. Perhaps you can be my date?

UPDATE:
Head over to Sigur Rós' website to snag a high quality mp3 of the album's first single, "Gobbledigook." While you're there, watch the balls out video for the song, unless you're at work, then you may want to wait until you get home. No, Femme, it doesn't suck, nor does it sound like Sigur Rós as we've come to know and love them. If anything, it sounds like Sigur Rós just picked up a copy of Sung Tongs and decided to have some fun with acoustic guitars. Is this their freak-folk record? Find out on June 24, when the album hits stores in North America. Or, pre-order the album from their website starting on June 2, and get access to an mp3 download a week early. Let's not forget Sigur Rós are playing at the Uptown Theater on June 12. Tickets are still available, and you'd be crazy not to pick one up if you haven't already.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Sonic Youth, What Are You Thinking?

So I must be living under a rock or something (it's called Olathe, Kansas), but somehow I missed that Starbucks is putting together a SY compilation. Apparently all of the tracks have been chosen from famous SY fans, everyone from actors like Chloe Sevigny and David Cross to fellow music masterminds Radiohead and the Flaming Lips.

OK, sounds cool.

But why oh why does it have to be compiled by Starbucks????

Anyway, the track list for the thing is after the jump. Did anyone else wish Radiohead would have been a little riskier with their choice? I do have to give props to Dave Eggers and Mike Watt, though. And, uh, Flea.

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Monday, May 19, 2008

Liars Photos

I intended to put up a couple Liars photos with my Radiohead post, but I was too busy paying homage to Thom Yorke to remember. Nonetheless, regardless of what your feelings about Liars are, the dudes put on a pretty deadly show. Frontman Angus Andrew is a sight to behold.

So behold.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Radiohead - St. Louis - 5/14/08

All I Need
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Airbag
15 Step
Nude
Kid A
Weird Fishes
The Gloaming
You & Whose Army?
Idioteque
Faust Arp
Videotape
Everything in Its Right Place
Reckoner
Optimistic
Bangers & Mash
Bodysnatchers
....................
Exit Music (for a Film)
Myxamatosis
My Iron Lung
There There
Fake Plastic Trees
....................
Pyramid Song
House of Cards
Paranoid Android

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Have You Heard?
Cut Copy - In Ghost Colours

Obsessions come and go in the world of Femme Fatale. Currently I'm obsessed with Cut Copy's '80s homage, In Ghost Colours. Think New Wave and Post-Punk. Think Disco and Dance Party. Think The Rapture done up in polka dots. Through all this, there’s even a track that evokes Fleetwood Mac (“Strangers in the Wind”). It might sound like the album would be all over the place, but somehow this Australian trio makes it work.

If you're like me and ready for a new dance album, this is the one.

Dare I say they'll Cut Copy and Paste themselves into your heart? Yes, I so totally said that.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Sleeveface: Kinda Lame, Kinda Lovely

I've been meaning to do something about this strange trend for some time now. Sure, it's kinda lame, but does anyone else think it's also kinda cool?

Please Read Me.

Harken, Fellow Artists/Musicians/NMH Fans!

During my tutoring-turned-babysitting session this afternoon, I finally got around to reading the book that's been chilling in my bathroom for a few months now, Kim Cooper's addition to the 33 1/3 Series, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.

First off, let me just say this book will make you want to turn off that tv, quit your job, move far far away, and live in someone's walk-in-closet. Oh, and make some badass music.

I'd like to share a quote from bassist/saw player Julian Koster that finishes out Cooper's homage. For some reason it gave me chills... and you'll see what I mean about getting out there and making our own little contributions to the world.

I think what Elephant 6 meant for us is very simple: there's something pure and infinite in you, that wants to come out of you, and can come out of no other person on the planet. That's what you've got to share, and that's as real and important as the fact that you're alive. We [the Elephant 6 members] were able, at a really young age, to somehow protect each other so we could feel that. The world at large, careerism, money, magazines, your parents, the people at the rock club in your town, other kids, nothing is going to give you that message, necessarily. In fact, most things are going to lead you away from it, sadly, because humanity is really confused at the moment. But you wouldn't exist if the universe didn't need you. And any time I encounter something beautiful that came out of a human somewhere, that's them, that's their own soul. That's just pure, whatever its physicality is, if the person can play piano, if they can't play piano, if they're tone deaf, whatever it is, if it's pure, it hits you like a sledgehammer. It fills up your own soul, it makes you want to cry, it makes you glad you're alive, it lets you come out of you. And that's what we need: we desperately need you.

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Thursday, May 8, 2008

Random Shit

Do you ever get stuck on a song? Just one song, nothing else. I'm experiencing that right now.

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Concert Announcement:
My Morning Jacket

Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for an evening with My Morning Jacket? (First it was an evening with Sigur Ros, is this a new trend?) Well, ready or not, here they come, on August 18 at The Uptown Theater in Kansas City. I hear these guys pretty good in concert, so maybe you should check it out. As of right now, ticket information is unknown, but so keep your eyes peeled to My Morning Jacket or the ticketbastard web site for any further information.

If you just can't wait to get your live My Morning Jacket fix, you can catch the guys this weekend on Saturday Night Live. They'll probably play something off their upcoming album, Evil Urges, which is out on June 10.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Recent Concerts in Review

So this time of year always means a plethora of shows. A veritable cornicopia, if you will. Then it's summer, and when we have the most time to go to shows that's when, of course, they die down.

For now while I count down to Radiohead next week, I thought I'd share some thoughts from my recent long week of shows.

So, about not knowing all the songs, well make that ditto for the Destroyer show. Thursday night made for Dan #2 of the week. This was my first time seeing my favorite part of the New Pornographers gone solo... and he didn't disappoint. Sure, I would have liked to hear more from Destroyer's Rubies or even the new album, but I have to admire a guy who'll play a set of mostly older tunes. And those encores songs, whatever they were, WOW. If anyone knows what album those are from, you know where to find me. Oh and Dan, keep playing songs with my name in them. Pretty please.

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Friday, May 2, 2008

Album Review:
Portishead - Third

Portishead's first album in ten years has been in my possession for some time now, but it was only until recent weeks that I truly began to appreciate it. Who could have guessed the trip-hop trio would turn all ROCK on us?

So I might as well admit I've been cheating. I know what you're thinking. So that's why she doesn't feel like putting out for Range Life anymore. Well, stay tuned. Summer beckons, and with it, much time to wax poetic/nostalgic/nerd-like.

Bop on over here and read my thoughts on Third.

BTW, Buzzine doesn't score their albums, but I would have given it an 84%. Just read the review!

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Holy Merciful Happiness:
What are you doing June 12?

You better be going to see Sigur Ros. That's right. According to the band's Myspace, they will be playing KC's Uptown Theatre Thursday, July 12.

And I'm a bucket of gleeful goo...

Thanks for the heads up, Miss Mandy. If I can do anything to brighten your Wednesday in return...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Random Shit

News flash: The blog has been neglected. Then again, I never pretended to be a good parent. Devotees will probably remember that we went through a lull at this same time last year, and picked up nicely in the summer, and with any luck the same will happen this year. Just bare with us a few more weeks while we finish school, please. Until then, expect the sporadic posts to be light and fluffy, and hopefully wildly entertaining. Unless they're not like today's post, which is very lengthy and boring. Just kidding, or am I?

For today's post, I'm just going to go stream of consciousness on your ass and blog about whatever the fuck sounds good. This blog used to be called Midwest Music and More, after all, so file this under the "More" section if it helps. And yes, I do talk about Dexter.

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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

MBV Announces First U.S. Show in 16 Years; I'm Scrounging for $225

Seriously, just when I was convinced all those MBV reunion stories were mere myth, now the band has announced it will play a boutique festival organized by ATP. I'm all in a tizzy. The NY festival is scheduled for Sept. 19-21. The rest of the lineup (there's more?) features Built to Spill, Low, Tortoise, Mogwai, your mom (just kidding), and many others.

But, did I mention again that it's in New York, and that tickets are $225 PLUS FEES?

Ouch.

A priceless concert just got a whole lot, well, pricier.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

What Are You Listening To?

No, I'm not dead, just buried...in school work! But seriously, I haven't forgotten about you, dear readers, and I haven't stopped listening to music either. Show me yours and I'll show you mine...

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I Am Old Music and You Can Too!*

*Sorry, Stephen Colbert, for ripping off the oh-so-clever name of your oh-so-clever book.

As someone constantly trying to keep her pulse on the latest and greatest music, I often find myself overwhelmed and, ever increasingly, disappointed by the latest offerings. Sure, you've got Plants and Animals and The Dodos to keep the flora/fauna fresh. Still, lately I've been skipping many of the newer releases in favor of thumbing through rock's back-catalog.

I figured I'd touch on some of my favorite recent discoveries and offer you all a sample. Dig in!

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Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Monday, June 16, 2008

Friday, June 6, 2008

Monday, June 2, 2008

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Monday, May 26, 2008

Monday, May 19, 2008

Friday, May 16, 2008

Monday, May 12, 2008

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Friday, May 2, 2008

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Wednesday, April 16, 2008