Lit by the
throes
of death
cold and withering
lost in sallow
forests
alight
with treason and
torment
the flutter of
starlings
stuttering wings
brush the treetops
starry with
silver
snow
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
hüskers top 10: #5
Somewhere
Another existential lament by Grant V. Hart, and a prime counterpoint to the belief that Zen Arcade is emotionally dated by its youthful angst. If one concentrates on the more youth-specific rants, this argument carries some weight (listening to a song like 'The Biggest Lie' out of the context of the album is a bit ... bizarre), but to me, the more "unbearable lightness of being"-esque songs are the ones that carry the emotional heft, and are thus the ones with real staying power. 'Somewhere' is one of those songs.
'Somewhere' is unique in the Zen Arcade narrative in that, to these ears, it's the only time the protagonist displays a sense of idealism, of hope. Even when that hope is tempered by the bitter, cold truth that shit doesn't always work out, that the mythical "somewhere" is just that -- an empty, hollow illusion. Does that mean you stop chasing it? The answer is different for everyone, and for me, one of the prime beauties of 'Somewhere' is that my interpretations of the character's intentions shift depending on my mood.
Musically, the song is damn gorgeous, highlighted by Grant's killer rolls in the chorus and some up-yours-fake-punks backwards guitar. And it's one of the most epic two-and-a-half minute songs I've ever laid ears on.
Another existential lament by Grant V. Hart, and a prime counterpoint to the belief that Zen Arcade is emotionally dated by its youthful angst. If one concentrates on the more youth-specific rants, this argument carries some weight (listening to a song like 'The Biggest Lie' out of the context of the album is a bit ... bizarre), but to me, the more "unbearable lightness of being"-esque songs are the ones that carry the emotional heft, and are thus the ones with real staying power. 'Somewhere' is one of those songs.
'Somewhere' is unique in the Zen Arcade narrative in that, to these ears, it's the only time the protagonist displays a sense of idealism, of hope. Even when that hope is tempered by the bitter, cold truth that shit doesn't always work out, that the mythical "somewhere" is just that -- an empty, hollow illusion. Does that mean you stop chasing it? The answer is different for everyone, and for me, one of the prime beauties of 'Somewhere' is that my interpretations of the character's intentions shift depending on my mood.
Musically, the song is damn gorgeous, highlighted by Grant's killer rolls in the chorus and some up-yours-fake-punks backwards guitar. And it's one of the most epic two-and-a-half minute songs I've ever laid ears on.
hüskers top 10: #4
What's Going On
The first four tracks on side two compose Zen Arcade’s “anger suite.” As good as these tunes are, searing, blind rage isn’t the type of emotion I relate to on a daily basis.
But the tale takes a subtle shift on the fifth track. There’s no doubt that ‘What’s Going On’ spews more than enough fury to keep the thematic thread from unraveling. But it’s also the point when the anger begins to transform, when doubt and resignation start to seep in. And soon enough, every thought of our protagonist is soaked in them.
Grant’s primal paean to bewilderment (as well as the isolating effects of slipping too deeply into one's own head), ‘What’s Going On’ swims in tension and unease, which kick in with the first note from Greg’s wobbling, warbling bass. An insect-like hum rises slowly from Bob’s guitar, then explodes in a jagged, slashing spray in unison with Grant’s first words: I was talking/when I should have been listening. Writhing with feral ferocity, Bob's axe is a strangled beast -- moaning, groaning, hissing.
It’s a small miracle that the band manages to reach the first chorus. Pounded piano keys and tortured steel cocoon Grant’s disorientated plea, yelped forth like a twisted mantra:
What’s going on inside my head?
A dizzying, psychedelic “interlude” commences before we’re back to the chorus. The last “inside my head” is slowed, almost slurred. Both Grant and Bob do this, but to varying degrees. It’s a brilliant, beautifully disorienting touch.
Finally, the song eases, seemingly spent. But Bob refuses to yield. The abuse merely becomes more measured, a sluggish, savage molestation. Suddenly the band lurches forth in afinal, frantic burst. Everything falls apart. Bob’s guitar in its death throes now. A low grunt and –
Fin.
Dope.
The first four tracks on side two compose Zen Arcade’s “anger suite.” As good as these tunes are, searing, blind rage isn’t the type of emotion I relate to on a daily basis.
But the tale takes a subtle shift on the fifth track. There’s no doubt that ‘What’s Going On’ spews more than enough fury to keep the thematic thread from unraveling. But it’s also the point when the anger begins to transform, when doubt and resignation start to seep in. And soon enough, every thought of our protagonist is soaked in them.
Grant’s primal paean to bewilderment (as well as the isolating effects of slipping too deeply into one's own head), ‘What’s Going On’ swims in tension and unease, which kick in with the first note from Greg’s wobbling, warbling bass. An insect-like hum rises slowly from Bob’s guitar, then explodes in a jagged, slashing spray in unison with Grant’s first words: I was talking/when I should have been listening. Writhing with feral ferocity, Bob's axe is a strangled beast -- moaning, groaning, hissing.
It’s a small miracle that the band manages to reach the first chorus. Pounded piano keys and tortured steel cocoon Grant’s disorientated plea, yelped forth like a twisted mantra:
What’s going on inside my head?
A dizzying, psychedelic “interlude” commences before we’re back to the chorus. The last “inside my head” is slowed, almost slurred. Both Grant and Bob do this, but to varying degrees. It’s a brilliant, beautifully disorienting touch.
Finally, the song eases, seemingly spent. But Bob refuses to yield. The abuse merely becomes more measured, a sluggish, savage molestation. Suddenly the band lurches forth in afinal, frantic burst. Everything falls apart. Bob’s guitar in its death throes now. A low grunt and –
Fin.
Dope.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
hüskers top 10: #1, 2, and 3
In chronological order. Might take awhile.
1) It’s Not Funny Anymore
If the years have done anything to my ears (as a teenager—and beyond—my listening abilities were never even close to what one would term “sophisticated”), they’ve made one thing especially clear—the schism between Bob and Grant’s writing styles was never more startling than on Metal Circus.
Many have noted that the six-song EP showcases the first significant hints of the giant steps forward they would take on the subsequent double-album masterpiece, Zen Arcade. But while both Mould and Hart show their growing comfort with melody, it’s Grant who makes the most notable move away from the the confining constraints of hardcore. “Real World” and “First of the Last Calls” might have more nuance and better grooves than those heard on blink-and-you-miss-it Land Speed Record, but lyrically the songs are simplistic and undemanding, engaging in the same kind of sanctimonious holier-than-thou-isms Bob would so often cite in his lambasting of the hardcore scene.
Grant, on the other hand, not only masters melody, but mood. On this, the third track and Grant’s first lead on the EP, he is fucking philosophical, fer crissakes. Even the goddamn title offers multiple interpretations. Within the song’s swaying tempo, Hart reveals a ruminative depth and melodic maturity that is alternately existential, exhausted, self-deprecating, resigned and—depending on your mood—sarcastic. All in 2 minutes and 10 seconds.
Context certainly elevates the song’s impact—coming as it does on the heels of the self-conscious defensiveness of “Real World” and “Deadly Skies,” it is a welcome relief. But “It’s Not Funny Anymore” would slay even if I’d never heard the rest of Metal Circus.
2) Diane
Yeah, it’s through the rapist’s eyes. It’s anything but pro-rape. I feel sorry for people who take these things at face value, but you take that risk any time you’re dealing with printed or spoken expression, I guess. People want things made easy. – Bob Mould
Listening to “Diane” is not an easy experience, but therein lies the heft of its power. You have the words, of course … detached, calculating, matter of fact. Laying bare the horror in a way no other narrative could. Throbbing toms like a heartbeat, bass darkly menacing, guitar swarming cold and merciless. And Bob never wrote a better solo—or at least one that better captured its song’s atmosphere. Fucking chilling.
Mind you, I am no masochist, nor I am pruriently drawn to the ghastly details. But I am fascinated with those who dare grapple with humanity’s dark nature and do so sans exploitative cheap tricks. But why sing about such truths? Because, in my mind, that is one of art’s most essential functions. To delve into those uncomfortable aspects of existence with the hope of reaching some sort of reconciliation, some level of understanding, without romanticizing or fetishizing. And though often there is no answer, no understanding, but only grim, senseless truths, the effort remains an essential one.
3) Chartered Trips
The first three tracks on Zen Arcade establish the back story, but “Chartered Trips” is where the album’s narrative begins its dizzying forward momentum. Mould depicts the protagonist’s ambivalence, confusion and excitement with psychedelic grace, ruminating on oblivious horizons and disorienting deserts. It’s really the first time on record that Mould has dared to get poetic instead of political, and the stunning results leave me wondering what took him so long.
1) It’s Not Funny Anymore
If the years have done anything to my ears (as a teenager—and beyond—my listening abilities were never even close to what one would term “sophisticated”), they’ve made one thing especially clear—the schism between Bob and Grant’s writing styles was never more startling than on Metal Circus.
Many have noted that the six-song EP showcases the first significant hints of the giant steps forward they would take on the subsequent double-album masterpiece, Zen Arcade. But while both Mould and Hart show their growing comfort with melody, it’s Grant who makes the most notable move away from the the confining constraints of hardcore. “Real World” and “First of the Last Calls” might have more nuance and better grooves than those heard on blink-and-you-miss-it Land Speed Record, but lyrically the songs are simplistic and undemanding, engaging in the same kind of sanctimonious holier-than-thou-isms Bob would so often cite in his lambasting of the hardcore scene.
Grant, on the other hand, not only masters melody, but mood. On this, the third track and Grant’s first lead on the EP, he is fucking philosophical, fer crissakes. Even the goddamn title offers multiple interpretations. Within the song’s swaying tempo, Hart reveals a ruminative depth and melodic maturity that is alternately existential, exhausted, self-deprecating, resigned and—depending on your mood—sarcastic. All in 2 minutes and 10 seconds.
Context certainly elevates the song’s impact—coming as it does on the heels of the self-conscious defensiveness of “Real World” and “Deadly Skies,” it is a welcome relief. But “It’s Not Funny Anymore” would slay even if I’d never heard the rest of Metal Circus.
2) Diane
Yeah, it’s through the rapist’s eyes. It’s anything but pro-rape. I feel sorry for people who take these things at face value, but you take that risk any time you’re dealing with printed or spoken expression, I guess. People want things made easy. – Bob Mould
Listening to “Diane” is not an easy experience, but therein lies the heft of its power. You have the words, of course … detached, calculating, matter of fact. Laying bare the horror in a way no other narrative could. Throbbing toms like a heartbeat, bass darkly menacing, guitar swarming cold and merciless. And Bob never wrote a better solo—or at least one that better captured its song’s atmosphere. Fucking chilling.
Mind you, I am no masochist, nor I am pruriently drawn to the ghastly details. But I am fascinated with those who dare grapple with humanity’s dark nature and do so sans exploitative cheap tricks. But why sing about such truths? Because, in my mind, that is one of art’s most essential functions. To delve into those uncomfortable aspects of existence with the hope of reaching some sort of reconciliation, some level of understanding, without romanticizing or fetishizing. And though often there is no answer, no understanding, but only grim, senseless truths, the effort remains an essential one.
3) Chartered Trips
The first three tracks on Zen Arcade establish the back story, but “Chartered Trips” is where the album’s narrative begins its dizzying forward momentum. Mould depicts the protagonist’s ambivalence, confusion and excitement with psychedelic grace, ruminating on oblivious horizons and disorienting deserts. It’s really the first time on record that Mould has dared to get poetic instead of political, and the stunning results leave me wondering what took him so long.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
in this
our first
winter
when our
letters
turn toward
days
and years
a
muttered blissful
reign
bound by
lazy cursive
and the blood
of saints
asleep
unborn
fed to beasts
who sink like
thorns
in the fleshy sides of
remembrance
to rest
softly
resolved
to erase
this
burden
born
deep
in velvet
arms
which span
the ever-narrowing
delicate
eternal
our first
winter
when our
letters
turn toward
days
and years
a
muttered blissful
reign
bound by
lazy cursive
and the blood
of saints
asleep
unborn
fed to beasts
who sink like
thorns
in the fleshy sides of
remembrance
to rest
softly
resolved
to erase
this
burden
born
deep
in velvet
arms
which span
the ever-narrowing
delicate
eternal
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