Sunday, September 27, 2009

The Brightest Eyes


Now, don't feel discouraged by the title. This is not going to be my emo swoop into teen angst, nor a diatribe about how no one "feels their music" anymore, "man!" Just because I like Bright Eyes, does not mean I'm a homosexual living in a world of people who just don't understand me, and my love for music, amongst other things. Except I am and they don't. So. Ha!

Recently, which means within the last two years, I've been really, really into Bright Eyes. And I've never really fallen out of love with him... it's sad, I believe Conor Oberst may be the longest relationship I've ever had... damn, sucks to be me!

He is entirely brilliant, though. His voice is raw, and ugly; even he admits to not being much of a singer. And yet, it's that rawness, that ugliness, that makes him so relatable, because, like everyone, he feels things, and can communicate them in a real, tangible way.

"I find one of the most interesting, alluring properties of Conor Oberst that he is neither interesting nor alluring in person. If you watch him, he's this hunched, sort of shell of a man, someone who is truly marked by his past, in a way unlike any musician I've ever seen before him. Yet he reminds me so much of Bob Dylan, but without any of the romantic, poetic aura. He just is. Like, I imagine finding him on a street in some city somewhere, eating something he found in the garbage, wearing someone else's clothes. He has this twitch, this painful or pain-filled sense about how he moves, almost like he has to really think about where he's going to put his limbs but instead swings them wildly, missing. Every time he performs a song, he not only changes his movements, but the arrangement, the emphasis, sometimes even the words. Which was something Dylan did at the concert. That's a connection I'd never really drawn before, but which I'm now smiling at having made. And it's so different, watching him sing, from listening to him. You can see the scream. I remember once, I was watching a Tegan and Sara interview, and one of them, Tegan most probably, mentioned that to her, singing is acting, more than anything else, it's capturing the emotion a thousand times repeated of a conclusion you just barely reached to begin with. Conor is not an actor. He is feeling the same emotions he felt upon writing when he performs a song. You can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his lips curl downward, like when you try to conceal a cry and all you end up doing is breathing heavy, a fish out of water. Sometimes he extends or lengthens the words, lets his lips linger in their shape, as if he forgets he's singing for anyone other than himself. I used to think he just looked like some crazy homeless man -- which, don't get me wrong, he totally does, haha. But now I think he looks more just like someone who's lived life. The good, the bad. I feel like ugly is the most perfect word for Conor Oberst, but I never, ever mean it as an insult. Raw is probably more of the right word. Like a baby just out of the womb, or the stubble of a man a few days past time to shave. Sometimes he screams a word without even screaming it, no increase in volume, he puts the intensity in his voice and it's just moving, absolutely bone-trembling type emotion. I feel his music in a way I don't feel any other. I mean, really feel it, like you're holding it in your hands, letting it swim through your fingers at times, clutching it with knuckles of blotchy white at others, really grabbing at it or just letting it exist. I'm not sure why exactly I'm telling you this, I was watching a video of Lenders In the Temple, my favorite song of his, and it just struck me, how intensely, I can't even describe it, just how Conor Oberst makes me feel everything at once, makes me recognize what I'm feeling without being able to name it."

I wrote that about a month ago, but it still reigns true today.

She's my apple pie.




Alright, so I forbid you to hate me for being bad at blogging.

Forbidden Thing #2: Hating me for not being able to respond to your post(s) last night. A friend of mine, whom I haven't had anything to do with since GHP, decided to get all sentimental on me, and have "boy talk" over facebook. Too bad it was a one-sided conversation. When she asked if I had any in my life, I just internet laughed, a bit of an awkward "lawl" and changed the subject. To school. Because no one ever gets bored with that, right?

Okay, ironies upon all ironies, the second I started this, a friend from middle school decided to ask if I'd gone to the Harrison game Friday. Damn. I am just Mrs. Facebook Popularity. Or maybe it's just that I'm always online, so I'm their only choice for discussion. I'm betting on that beta fish.

So, Mother Nature has been knocking on both my door and my lower back for the past week or so, and it scared me because I was like, "Punctuation mark? Naw. Naw, that motha fucka too early." And then this morning, I woke up, with the worst cramps I've ever had in my life. I laid in bed for the next three hours, because I was hurtin. I didn't want to move. I couldn't move. I never have cramps, Fiona. Like, never. It's something I pride myself on. Megan gets the worst cramps in existence, and up until now, I've been able to laugh. Now, I cry for her pain. As well as my own.

God, Mother Nature, why you gotta do me like that? Oh, I see how it is. Keep your enemies-- keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer. Damn, Mother Nature. You like my best enemy.

I love chicken. So much. Mi madre is baking some good shit this... mid-afternoon. I'm excited. Chicken my favorite meal. Must be an American thing.


Weird, though. I hate apple pie.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

The Avett Brothers



Guilty pleasure of the month: The Avett Brothers

I've recently been finding myself subconsciously leading a battle against my Q100-loving self to immerse myself in more high-brow music, but it has not been faring well. Although I think The Avett Brothers are a far cry from Miley Cyrus's yelp-songs, they're not quite the high-brow experimental musical artistry that I've recently been exposed to.

However, they're not exactly your typical acoustic guitar indie group, either. I shun country music (minus Taylor Swift; damnit, Q100), and I suppose the Avett Brothers might share a sliver of their style with the country music circle in the great Venn Diagram of Music. If remember correctly, the two brothers are from South Carolina, and you can hear faint southern twangs in their songs if you listen closely. I loved their song I got from the NPR SXSW sampler cd I got free off itunes (St. Joseph's), but I realized that they were the same band that that one chick at GHP always played while we scrutinized our own faces with a charcoal stick in our hands.

The ballerina who always had a snotty air about her who I couldn't bring myself to hate because she had a good taste in music and dress. Anyway, she would play them all the time. So right now my addiction is "Second Gleam", their more recent album.

"News came of a child born unto this world of people demented and wild. I will stay here for you, my love.

Above: A piece by Harry, who also approved of this band.

La Expulsión de Mi Útero


This blog will, henceforward, be my sole reason for existing. I will also attempt not to be sentimental, spend more than 2.5 sentences talking about GHP, neglect it, or renounce the skin color that was given to me by attempting to be very ghetto. In retrospect, saying that "only black people can talk like that" is just as racist as, uh, other racist stuff. (Resolution four: not ramble on about my thoughts regarding racism).

I am somewhat nervous about tonight. Before coming over to babysit, I didn't ask when they'd come back. When I got here, she said midnight. Um, unless I am grossly mistaken (which I sincerely doubt) it is quite illegal, against the law, and otherwise not in accordance with state legislation for me to be out on the roads after the clock strikes 11:59:59. Damn French people, their philosophy is always "fuck da police". Okay, so they're recent expats, and they have no children that have gone through the tedious process of acquiring a license, but still! I swear to God, French people. French people LOVE strikes almost as much as they love skinny jeans, wine, and widly careening through the streets of Paris. That is to say, a lot.

P.S. French women do shave their armpits. Sort of.