Dear Jenny Lewis, Blake Sennet, Jason Boesel (sp), and That Bassist Who Looks Like He's 45 Or Something,
Let me just start by saying that I'm one helluva Rilo Kiley fan. I know that by this point in my life I should have moved on from that high school Compisition Book Confessions, whispery-type rock, but I'll be damned if I don't admit that The Execution of all Things made me tear up on multiple accounts, that I overlooked the commercial intentions of More Adventurous for the sake of "A Man, Me, then Jim" and "Does He Love You?", and that for a while I had one of my favorite lines from The Initial Friendship EP as a headline for my LiveJournal account ("aw fuck it, here's your love song"). And I really wish I knew what the Frug was. I bought into it all--the sunny California attitude with that L.A. tongue-in-cheek, Jenny's ridiculous itty-bitty dresses, Blake's beyond-sleazy moustache, the fact that you opened for fucking Coldplay. Why? Because you guys write damn good songs, that are perfect for screaming or just listening to in the backround, or laying on the couch with the headphones on. And they're coupled with catchy melodies that are sometimes beyond cute, and sometimes subtle enough to suggest the tragedy implied.
So yeah, when I found out about Under the Blacklight, I got excited. Last we heard of any of you, Jenny had just put out the impressive but sometimes faltering Rabbit Fur Coat with the Watson Twins (who are, by the way, creepy) and Blake had put out Sun Sun Sun with this band called the Elected, who I don't really like that much. Sorry. From the photoshoots that accompanied the album, y'all seem to be going for some sort of hardcore indie gangsta thing, or maybe a Vegas magic act. In any case, there's a different tone suggested from the start: that Rilo Kiley is going to be-gulp-more than just soft vocals and trebled guitars and hi-hats. Your website, which hadn't changed since More Adventurous, was suddenly nothing more than a blacklight that, when clicked, revealed the album title and cued a repeating bass track. Weird.
I was scouting for anything new on OiNk (so sue me, I download sometimes), and I happened to come across Single Number One, which you had titled "The Moneymaker". The song starts with the bass riff from the website (it all made sense), and then turned into, um, rock. It was as if you'd turned the amplifiers up. Or on, for that matter. Of course, the song isn't bad per se. It's just not you, R.K. I mean, there's nothing ironic about it. The chorus is "uh uh uuuuuh, yeeeaaaaah", and there's, like one hook in it.
In any case, I wasn't completely disappointed in the song. I appreciate artists seeking new avenues of expression. Conor Oberst did it with techno, right?
So about a week after that, I found another track from the album (not leaking your entire album at once, by the way, is frustrating. How else will I know it's worth contemplating buying?), this one called "Dreamworld". The torrent site warned me that it was a Blake track, so I was prepared--Blake, honey, I hate to tell you, but your voice is whinier than Jenny's--to roll my eyes and skip over it. But, despite the Whine, it sounded better than "The Moneymaker". It's definitely a Rilo Kiley track--a little differently produced, yeah, but still it would have fit in on any of the previous albums. Once again, however, the lyrics were almost awful. It's like you guys are basing your songs on the episode of Gilmore Girls where they go to Seattle to meet the cast of Grey's Anatomy.
But you know what? Those two tracks are excusable. They aren't god-awful, and More Adventurous had "It's a Hit" and "Portions for Foxes", and I still dig that album.
There's no excusing what came next. I had expected "Give a Little Love" to sound like "The Good that Won't Come Out", or one of your typical unrequited-love-that-could-be-real-but-we-aren't-trying-hard-enough songs. But this. This. It's a bad Go Go's B-Side from 1985. It's something that they wrote for a Disney Channel movie that some Mandy Moore knockoff sings. It's fucking terrible, Jenny, and I didn't even give it the benefit of the doubt and listen to it twice, like I did with Cassadanga and Icky Thump, and I'd take any of the songs on those albums stuck in my head for the rest of my life then have to give "Give a Little Love" a little love. What did you use, GarageBand 1.1 to get those beats? Do you actually say something like "You've got your troubles/I've got mine/On a clear day/I can read your mind"?? You don't need to make a radio-friendly song, because the radio sucks, and you damned well know it. I hate to break it to you, but I really can't forgive it. You might as well appear in a McDonald's ad dressed as Chicken McNuggets. Christ.
The album is due to drop on the 21st, which (if you guys were too busy taking stupid pills to notice) is next Tuesday. Maybe I'll go to Wal-Mart and pick up a copy. Lemme ask, is it called Under the Blacklight because you're music is so drained of emotion and life that its pale face can only be seen Under the Blacklight? That's the only explination I can think of. Oh yeah, and its not gonna be available on LP, which means goodbye indie cred. Hope you care.
For now, I'll just be sitting and telling myself that you only released/leaked those songs because your record company told you to, and the real gems are on the album itself, just waiting to be heard. Because, you know, that's ALWAYS how it works.
Very little love to give,
Meg
Friday, August 17, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
January 0
All towns have a history, one that is unique and is their own. Some might go so far as to say that every town, no matter how small or grand, has all the characteristics of a human being. It is born, it is enamored, its heart breaks. The town finds its place amongst the rest in the world. Archer is no exception, by far; it breathes and sighs and sings and sleeps. For a few years, it seemed as though Archer had died, but no, it still lives. Archer’s pulse is the scratch of pencils in the schoolrooms, the pace of feet along Main Street, the opening and closing of the doors in its five-hundred and fifty homes, the crash of the waves on its twelve-foot wide beach, and the whirr of the denim factory in the east side. And to nearly one thousand people, Archer is, above all, home.
At some point in Archer’s life, one of the city councilmen decided that there were not enough holidays in the calendar. “Holidays,” he said (his name, by the way, was Arnold Archer, my grandfather and the descendant of the town’s founder, Arthur David Archer. He was a vast man, in both size and deed. He kept his long mustache impeccably trimmed and was, according to all who knew him, the kindest man ever to be a councilman), “are days held in great importance to those who celebrate them; the people of faith or creed who believe that these days are, above others, exceptional.” Here he paused, beaming, with his hands held out to the entire town, who had gathered to hear his booming voice, “but I believe, as you will surely agree, that our own Archer is, above other towns, quite exceptional.” Applause, rising to kiss his words. “Therefore, to celebrate our home, I propose that we make every day of the year, beginning with the first of January, a holiday to commemorate some of the finest moments in our history.”
The idea was met with enthusiasm and excitement. Immediately a new council was created, the Council of Town History, and Arnold Archer was named its head. The council pored through every historical record that could be found, marking off significant events, and debating which three hundred and sixty five (plus the added day for Leap Year) would be chosen as a Holiday.
In order to help the citizens of Archer keep track of which day was which, an Almanac was created that described each event, and how it is commemorated. This volume which you hold in your hands is the thirty-third edition of the Archer Almanac. It is the most complete edition to date; and each day has been written so that you, who might not be a resident of Archer, might better understand the goings-on in this town. I have kept my grandfather’s tradition in editing the histories myself. I can only hope that it is to your liking.
Annabella Archer
Head Editor and Historian
In case you don't know; I have decided to take the story I wrote a week or so ago and expand it into a full, 366 story history, all taking place in the magical and quite exceptional town of Archer.
At some point in Archer’s life, one of the city councilmen decided that there were not enough holidays in the calendar. “Holidays,” he said (his name, by the way, was Arnold Archer, my grandfather and the descendant of the town’s founder, Arthur David Archer. He was a vast man, in both size and deed. He kept his long mustache impeccably trimmed and was, according to all who knew him, the kindest man ever to be a councilman), “are days held in great importance to those who celebrate them; the people of faith or creed who believe that these days are, above others, exceptional.” Here he paused, beaming, with his hands held out to the entire town, who had gathered to hear his booming voice, “but I believe, as you will surely agree, that our own Archer is, above other towns, quite exceptional.” Applause, rising to kiss his words. “Therefore, to celebrate our home, I propose that we make every day of the year, beginning with the first of January, a holiday to commemorate some of the finest moments in our history.”
The idea was met with enthusiasm and excitement. Immediately a new council was created, the Council of Town History, and Arnold Archer was named its head. The council pored through every historical record that could be found, marking off significant events, and debating which three hundred and sixty five (plus the added day for Leap Year) would be chosen as a Holiday.
In order to help the citizens of Archer keep track of which day was which, an Almanac was created that described each event, and how it is commemorated. This volume which you hold in your hands is the thirty-third edition of the Archer Almanac. It is the most complete edition to date; and each day has been written so that you, who might not be a resident of Archer, might better understand the goings-on in this town. I have kept my grandfather’s tradition in editing the histories myself. I can only hope that it is to your liking.
Annabella Archer
Head Editor and Historian
In case you don't know; I have decided to take the story I wrote a week or so ago and expand it into a full, 366 story history, all taking place in the magical and quite exceptional town of Archer.
Monday, August 6, 2007
And if anyone has any Offenbach....I need it.
I'm on such a classical music bender. This happens every few weeks. The problem with classical music is that you can't really listen to it briefly and then go back to regular music. It's just impossible.
"Isn't the true poet or painter a seer? Isn't he, actually, the only seer we have on earth? Most apparently not the scientist, most emphatically not the psychiatrist."
-J.D. Salinger, from Seymour: an Introduction
The only problem with that is that for all the seeing that we poets and painters do, for all the nuances of life that we sense and try to pick up on, in the end most people don't care too much. I could go to work and talk about infinity, and they would, most earnstly and without spite, look up and say "so what?"
A visionary's life is troubled, not because of what he or she sees, but because no one else in the world can see it. I could say that I think life is a pretty fantastic and wonderful thing, but then everyone around me just seems to be dead-set on proving me wrong.
Of course, I'm not calling myself a visionary of any sort. Well, maybe a little. I certainly feel a level of alieneation that is all-encompassing. Perhaps me constantly trying to be profound about the big picture is just a means of avoiding the little one in the mirror every morning.
I'm making this blog haplessly confessional. One would think that I'd be smart enough to just shut up and talk about books.
"Isn't the true poet or painter a seer? Isn't he, actually, the only seer we have on earth? Most apparently not the scientist, most emphatically not the psychiatrist."
-J.D. Salinger, from Seymour: an Introduction
The only problem with that is that for all the seeing that we poets and painters do, for all the nuances of life that we sense and try to pick up on, in the end most people don't care too much. I could go to work and talk about infinity, and they would, most earnstly and without spite, look up and say "so what?"
A visionary's life is troubled, not because of what he or she sees, but because no one else in the world can see it. I could say that I think life is a pretty fantastic and wonderful thing, but then everyone around me just seems to be dead-set on proving me wrong.
Of course, I'm not calling myself a visionary of any sort. Well, maybe a little. I certainly feel a level of alieneation that is all-encompassing. Perhaps me constantly trying to be profound about the big picture is just a means of avoiding the little one in the mirror every morning.
I'm making this blog haplessly confessional. One would think that I'd be smart enough to just shut up and talk about books.
Back with a vengence
Recently wrote a pretty nice story, but it's not going here. Rather, I think that this is the right place to put some quips that I've jotted down in my Moleskine (it's so damn spiffy, all reporter-style and black; I just get and idea and flip!!). Here's one for now, from a particularly downsome day a few weeks ago:
This is what reality is--it is when you look at a rose and call it 'red', and you are sure that it is, without question. Because if there is even the slightest doubt in your mind that the rose is not red, if your belief falters in any way, then reality is shattered, then all is chaos and black spots on a white canvas. Reality was probably invented when someone tried, vainly, to call a rose red without wanting to be inclined to call it anything else. Reality is refusing to say that the truth might not be true.
It's fun to look through something that you wrote in months or years in the past and go "Huhm! What got me into that mood?" I've become so tired and embarrassed of this that I throw away notebooks that I recognize as being more than six months old. Of course, this is coupled with The Great Notebook Dilemma. The Great Notebook Dilemma is when a writer--say, for instance, myself--is sitting down with a notebook one day and begins to what is, at the time, possibly the beginnings of the greatest collection of words in Literature. However, like all great works, this is abandoned within the hour. A few weeks later, the notebook is picked up again, and I realize that those six or seven pages are the most uninspired dreck imaginable, and God Forbid anyone should chance upon them. Sensible, I rip them from the notebook and throw them in the fire. Immediately I am struck with another fantastic idea that I write in the now purged notebook....and the process continues. Eventually, I am left with nothing but the cardboard spine of a notebook, within which tiny specks of paper still cling like refugees to the binding, some with half-letters still prominent. My dilemma comes when I open an old drawer months later and find several notebooks that are completely torn, save for a few sheets of paper near the back. What to do then? Keep them for the paper? Find a way of binding them all together? No, I think, best to throw them away, or, as I usually do, shut the drawer and forget it for another year.
You know, there's something about Schubert's Ave Maria that makes me feel a little lonely, a little light. I think that it might be how the phrase "ave maria" is so damned beautiful.
All right, gotta wrap this up. I'm halfway through Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel. Though it is quite good and contains a great deal of detail about the world in which it takes place, the lack of emotion within the actual characters bothers me. A modern writer, no matter how much she wishes to emulate Victorian writers, owes it to a feeling society to talk about, well, feelings.
Night before last, as a break from Clarke, I read and finished "Seymour: an Introduction" by J.D. Salinger. Very self-referential, amusing, human. The only questionable aspect was how the narrator, Buddy, kept acting as though he really wanted to talk about himself instead of his brother. Such asides would amount to nothing and distract from the actual progression; things like Buddy alluding to his being/not being homosexual (I had no idea what that was about).
Still, nothing is coming close to my recent favourite, Everything is Illuminated. Read it.
Still to read this summer: some more Joyce, Water for Elephants, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, maybe Vonnegut or Keroac. God be damned, I will never read The Lovely Bones.
This is what reality is--it is when you look at a rose and call it 'red', and you are sure that it is, without question. Because if there is even the slightest doubt in your mind that the rose is not red, if your belief falters in any way, then reality is shattered, then all is chaos and black spots on a white canvas. Reality was probably invented when someone tried, vainly, to call a rose red without wanting to be inclined to call it anything else. Reality is refusing to say that the truth might not be true.
It's fun to look through something that you wrote in months or years in the past and go "Huhm! What got me into that mood?" I've become so tired and embarrassed of this that I throw away notebooks that I recognize as being more than six months old. Of course, this is coupled with The Great Notebook Dilemma. The Great Notebook Dilemma is when a writer--say, for instance, myself--is sitting down with a notebook one day and begins to what is, at the time, possibly the beginnings of the greatest collection of words in Literature. However, like all great works, this is abandoned within the hour. A few weeks later, the notebook is picked up again, and I realize that those six or seven pages are the most uninspired dreck imaginable, and God Forbid anyone should chance upon them. Sensible, I rip them from the notebook and throw them in the fire. Immediately I am struck with another fantastic idea that I write in the now purged notebook....and the process continues. Eventually, I am left with nothing but the cardboard spine of a notebook, within which tiny specks of paper still cling like refugees to the binding, some with half-letters still prominent. My dilemma comes when I open an old drawer months later and find several notebooks that are completely torn, save for a few sheets of paper near the back. What to do then? Keep them for the paper? Find a way of binding them all together? No, I think, best to throw them away, or, as I usually do, shut the drawer and forget it for another year.
You know, there's something about Schubert's Ave Maria that makes me feel a little lonely, a little light. I think that it might be how the phrase "ave maria" is so damned beautiful.
All right, gotta wrap this up. I'm halfway through Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel. Though it is quite good and contains a great deal of detail about the world in which it takes place, the lack of emotion within the actual characters bothers me. A modern writer, no matter how much she wishes to emulate Victorian writers, owes it to a feeling society to talk about, well, feelings.
Night before last, as a break from Clarke, I read and finished "Seymour: an Introduction" by J.D. Salinger. Very self-referential, amusing, human. The only questionable aspect was how the narrator, Buddy, kept acting as though he really wanted to talk about himself instead of his brother. Such asides would amount to nothing and distract from the actual progression; things like Buddy alluding to his being/not being homosexual (I had no idea what that was about).
Still, nothing is coming close to my recent favourite, Everything is Illuminated. Read it.
Still to read this summer: some more Joyce, Water for Elephants, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, maybe Vonnegut or Keroac. God be damned, I will never read The Lovely Bones.
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