New Music: Misun

This past weekend DJ JD (that's me!) participated in a Year's End Listening Party, hanging with some of my favorite music addicts as we try to cram a year's worth of sharing and listening into about five hours.  

Just thinking about it makes me both excited and anxious.   When your turn comes up, you have just three cuts.  You hope to make a connection, but irregardless if you succeed, it is all a blur.  

It makes me pine for those long evenings back in college when the gang would spend an evening digesting an entire album together, decoding its meaning and talking about its significance.  Wasted youth is wasted on the young. (That is not a typo.)

So much didn't get played - (Barsk didn't even play Mogwai!) - that I am reminded why I decided to start this blog: to share music that I dig. 

So, here was a late 2013 discovery for me that I am excited about, a band called Misun (pronounced Me-Sun) from Washington D.C.

The band termed their sound Aquawave but I happen to think it fits just fine under the banner of well crafted Pop music. Considering they are a DC band, perhaps it would be most fitting if they had "Go-Go" in their genre tag.  

Regardless of how you would describe them, I had these three cuts lined up in my iPod for the Listening Party and they never got airtime.  So here they are for your listening pleasure, dig in. 

Battlefields


Battlefields sounds like it could open a Quentin Tarantino movie.  A surf retro shuffle with tough soul. 

Nothing Else


Nothing Else was actually the first track I heard from Misun thanks to Pigeons & Planes, a site with a ton of daily content.  Most of what I hear there doesn't stick with me but this shimmering kiss off song obviously sent me on a hunt for more.  

Sharpshooter


Sharpshooter give us a just a tinge of dubby reverb and a bleary vocal delivery with just the right dosage of The Ache.  Oh yes.  

With these three tracks as a representative sample, it seems evident that Misun are still building their sound and that is exciting. From what they have come up with so far, it is clear that the field is wide open. 

They have released a great deal of singles digitally for free on Soundcloud so far, but nothing in any physical format.   That is about to change with their first 7" single (preview below) now taking pre-orders and shipping February 18th.  



Will I be purchasing?  You betcha!

What is in a name?

About a week ago, I was in a conversation with SD and Trocc after a show at Schuba's.  The topic had drifted to music (surprise) and I was struggling temporarily to remember a band's name...

Me: "Shoot, umm...it is one of those bands with a three word name..."

SD: "Steel Pole Bathtub?"...chuckle...

SD: "King Cobb Steelie?"...snicker...

Me:  "Shut it!  No, it was...um...AGENT SIDE GRINDER!"...giggles...

Trocc: "That is a terrible name."

And I couldn't really disagree with him.  Except I did - because I like the band.  

That is why SD was chuckling at his suggestions as well because the Junk Drawer has a soft spot for both Steel Pole Bathtub and King Cobb Steelie. 

SD could give a fuck about those bands but he listens to bands with names like Sunburned Hand of the Man, Pocahaunted, and MV & EE so take his opinion on chuckle worthy band names with a grain of salt.    

But this got me thinking of about how the name of something is completely irrelevant, until you start creating a reputation for that name.  Then that is your brand, right?

It is easy to slag band names when you don't have any interest in their music. But once you fall under the spell of the music you can forgive practically any name.  
Here are a few that currently annoy me: 

• MGMT - so, I am supposed to say each letter of this name? Why exactly? This band used be called The Management and then when they found out some other band had that awful name, rather than take that as a sign they simply started calling themselves the abbreviation of the word.  I hate the word management, partly because the worst/pointless/LONG meetings I have to attend all start with it.  
• Trampled By Turtles -  aren't we clever? 
• The Pains of Being Pure of Heart -- nothing this twee sounding could be good for you in the long run. 
• Mumford & Sons -- a bit too on the nose for their style of new wave banjo, polished old timey-ness.  Plus it makes me think of Sanford & Son whose theme song I like infinitely better than anything that XRT has forced me to listen to by these guys. 

What band names do you dislike without any regard or knowledge of their music?

After the Flood Part III

If you didn't get carried under, there is only one thing to do after a flood: rebuild. 

So it was kind of fitting that last Saturday was Record Store Day; a day where stores are flooded with new releases.  Some are crass cash grabs and some are cool collectibles.  What falls into which category is probably a matter of taste. 

Participating record stores are also flooded with people.  While waiting outside Dusty Groove with G$ we were handed a one sheet instructing us on proper RSD decorum.  Apparently pushing, shoving and grabbing stuff out of other people's hands was not going to be tolerated. 

The nice folks at Dusty Groove also had a cart with coffee and bagels.  Since I had lit out of the house at 6 am with nary a morsel to eat in order to get in line and freeze my toes off, I was very grateful.  

"You may have just saved my life today," I jested with the record store employee pushing the cart. 

"Your wallet won't be saying that in about forty minutes" he deadpanned back. 

Now I won't get off on a tangent about the sadomasochistic nature of RSD on the more music obsessive among us, I imagine junkies occasionally get together to trash talk their dealers too.  

But suffice it to say, the deck was stacked against us.  We were poor humble music lovers desperate to get in from the cold.  We had no idea what lay in wait for us but we had a feeling that whatever it was, it was going to be overpriced and we would buy it anyway. 

But something happened while this motley crew of strangers hung outside, we got to talking and so once we were finally inside we knew a little bit of what others were looking for.  The spirit was hopeful.  We started to help each other out in our personal quests.  

I snagged a copy of the Big Star release for my friend who was twenty people behind me in line because I spoke aloud, "Anyone see the Big Star record?" and someone handed it to me.   G$ spotted that Pink Floyd 7 inch and looked around for the dude that wanted it.  

Things were looking good that we would get many of our heart's desires - a stark contrast to RSD of recent years past.   As G$ and I were leaving we got a call from SD - despite a cold he was heading into the fray, en route to Dusty Groove.  

I told SD the general layout of where to look for his treasure and wished him well.   We were on our way to the Numero Group pop up store where my favorite score of the day awaited me...

A set of ten cassette tapes?  Yes, that is right and yes I am surprised as you are.  More on that tomorrow.  

After The Flood Part II

So this is only partly my story to tell because I was one of the lucky ones.  This one goes out to my man SD because my basement didn't get flooded this time.     

But I have been there.  I have had to throw out records, cds, comic books, concert posters.  And whatever is salvaged still gets boxed away for a time during restoration.  You are a collector that is instantly devoid of a collection.  

It is a moment that makes you sick - sick over looking at your ruined collection and, for me at least, it made me sick to truly recognize how much emotional power these items hold over you. 

There are all these other people that care about you and know you and they ask about the carpet and the furniture and THE DRYWALL.  Who the fuck cares about these things when there are dead and mortally wounded records strewn about? 

Serenity is truly a fleeting thing at this moment.  SD, I am here for you and I look forward to the next time we can listen to music together.   

*****

BTW: I did a google image search for water damaged albums and couldn't really find any and I think it is obvious why - no one wants to nail down for posterity what garish shape their waterlogged copy of Band of Gypsys was in right before throwing it into an industrial strength garbage bag.

But I did find this cool article about some rare Roy Eldridge records that were damaged in Hurricane Sandy.  The restoration effort meant that they had to continuously pour water on the records as they were playing one last time to lift the music off.      

  

Cassettes are back!

For a limited time anyway.  My iPod isn't working properly so if I want to listen to anything other than radio (gawd) in my '97 Honda Civic - I had to bust out this antiquated format. 

I am trying to get into it as an early development roadmap of my personal musical aesthetic. 

Also, a couple of years ago I inherited like 600 tapes from my good buddy SD.  As the name of this blog suggests, I am a bit of a pack rat collector and definitely a bargain bin scavenger. 

I am going to chart what I find on this blog.

Hanging on the telephone...

This post is about THE CALL.  Whether or not you even get the call AND just as important, how you answer it. 

I am speaking, of course, of the call to Rock. 

This past Tuesday I texted my buddies Trocc, SD and Barsk at 5 pm. Quittin' Time.   See, SUN ARAW was playing at the Empty Bottle that very same night. I had a bit of a wild hair and I wondered if there were any takers.  

I dig what I have heard of Sun Araw but I have kept him somewhat at arm's length because of his prodigious recorded output which can sometimes be anathema to a collector like myself with a strong completist streak.  My wallet can only  withstand so many bands like White Hills at one time. 

The replies were swift and regretful.  No takers for the spontaneous rock out. 

I felt that weird mixture of "aw shucks" and relief.  I wouldn't be attending a concert tonight so my wild hair (in)groaned.  But my future Weds. morning self was just as expressive with gratitude.   

Much later that night, I was watching The Walking Dead with my sweetheart.    I get a call from my friend, Mr. Kite.  

It is 11:50 pm.  A pivotal scene is playing out and a herd of zombies are traipsing towards the farm.  There is no way I am gonna pause the program to answer what could be a butt dial.  A minute later my phone signals that a message has been left. 

12:30 pm.  I am have just climbed into bed.  I decide to listen to Mr. Kite's message before turning in.

It was a spontaneous call to rock out.  That night.  Starting at 2:30 am at the House of Blues - Prince was getting a do-over for his botched aftershow performance the night before.  Rahm Emmanuel had even given permission to the club to break curfew if necessary.  

Now, Mr. Kite is practically the Mayor of the House of Blues.  You roll in with him and You. Are. Set. Up.   Admission, Seating, Drinks - it all just happens without you ever having to dip into your wallet (except to tip your servers, of course).  

The offer is tempting.  It is just so crazy that I wonder what it kind of show it might be.  Mr. Kite lays out the rationale quickly in his voicemail; You see,  the newspaper reviews of his Monday night show at the United Center were none too kind.  Prince has something to prove tonight (which was actually technically going to be very early in the morning). 

But I am in my pajamas.  Teeth have been brushed.  The choice was set before I even knew that there was a decision to be made.  

It was truly an honor just to get the call.  That has got to be a rarefied list of people that you will call at midnight to say "Hey! Do you wanna come on into the city and rock until DAWN?"   

feedtime

Last night I went and saw a truly sublime performance with SD and G$. Feedtime (aka feedtime) got their start in Australia during the late 70s.

I never heard of them until 2012 and likely neither did you. This is the type of discovery that makes music reissues so thrilling.

Feedtime is a trio that plays swampy blues punk. Both the guitarist and the bassist regularly employ a slide. It is caveman-ish and cathartic. It is a sound as old as the hills. But this trio took this limited sonic palette and they just OWNED it.

Bill Meyer, critic for the Chicago Reader explains them this way: "Imagine if Wire had met in shop class instead of art school and loved Blind Willie Johnson as much as Eno."

In hindsight, this is a classic case of a band just not getting their due respect.

Not that they seemed bitter at all last night at the Empty Bottle playing to a half empty room at $10 a head. In fact, they just appeared to be having the time of their lives playing out before an appreciative audience.

The performance wasn't showy, it wasn't contrived, but damn if it wasn't effective at being evocative of every menacing rumble that came before (i.e. Link Wray) and after (i.e. Mudhoney, whose lifelong fandom likely instigated this reissue).

Listen to Mark Arm's favorite feedtime tracks below and then do yourself a favor and seek out the box set - it is only $35 on Amazon for four LPs.

Alternatives to the Superbowl...

I went to Home Depot yesterday while the Superbowl was in full swing - turns out that is a great time to go if you want to get the undivided attention of their staff.

When I think of the myriad of alternative ways that I have spent Superbowl Sunday by far the coolest was in 1997.

Filmo, SD and I went to see the Brotzmann Tentet at the Unity Temple in Oak Park. I seem to remember it was in the middle of a snowstorm.

I can't find a video of that particular performance which is a shame because I think that week was the only time Mars Williams was in the group - I like Mars and I don't think he gets enough credit.

But here is one of the mighty Peter Brotzmann (a musical hero to Bill Clinton) and his tentet in 2004.

My already limited consumption of free jazz has narrowed to practically zero since having kids. Just watching this video makes it clear that I need to find some time to stare back at the abyss...