Keeping Track of History Pt. 4: Dream Catcher

Keeping Track of History Pt. 4: Dream Catcher

It isn't often that I get lost in a piece of music, but today it happened again and it was hauntingly beautiful.

The rain was cluttered at my window, pawing at the pain of glass; as if my cat was begging to get in, a soft gray mood waited patiently as I was illuminated by my computer. It was a typical friday afternoon, plenty of energy and nothing to do. As I scrolled through the series of pages I typically explored for new music I saw the image of Charlie Chaplin, all in black and white with the caption, "Material Of My Own." I clicked the white play icon and as Zacho Fraser crooned I was reminded of this story from my childhood.  

When I was 16 years old I went to Japan for the summer for school. Whether by ornate curiosity from the instructors or blind luck I was selected to be a part of a small squad of students that would participate in a exchange program in Iwate, Japan. At 16 I was five foot four, golden blonde with a disheveled grin and dressed like a Hot Topic ad before there was such a thing. Frankly, it's always an embarrassing moment when a female interest finds these photographs that mother and sister have stashed away like the easter bunny. I went with several friends and soon to be friends as well, but my two closest comrades were Geoff and Jacob. Before we left for Japan Geoff, Jacob and I barely knew anything about each other, but now we can safely say we know what we look like in our skivvies and would trust each other with our lives, or pokemon card collection -- at the time of course. Geoff usually had his dirty blonde mop kept in place by one large red sweatband. He wore large cargo pants, black combat boots and you could always hear him coming with the amount of necklaces and metal bracelets he wore. If you ever got this poor boy talking about electronica, gameboys or obscure anime, good luck shutting him up. 

Geoff was an electro junkie, listening to Dieselboy and Daft Punk. Jacob on the other hand shared similar qualities, such as anime, video games and general interest in the female body, but they look like polar opposites. Jacob was small, had a brown bowl haircut (that his mother probably cut for him) and was Jewish. Jacob was quiet and had a chuckle that seized his body. Jacob always made me feel funny or like the comedian of the group, so I often tested out my jokes on him. We were the three amigos full of sexual angst and without even the slightest clue or definition of what that even meant.

There's something odd about being sent to a country that is both highly sexualized but yet conservative when one is fully engulfed by the quicksand of puberty. All the girls were cute, I wanted them all, and the condom and cigarette vending machines told me I could have them all too. Japan was just one giant illusion of subservient ants bluffing the carnal and untamed sexual drive of the King of the Jungle. But I guess once a suit hits the floor, it no longer makes the man. I guess that's how it works, right? Well one day we were in Tokyo and the guys and I decided that we would go to Akihabara, or a.k.a. "Electric Town". It was the perfect place for kids our age. On every corner there was an arcade, comic book stand, video stores and tons of girls walking around in adorable schoolgirl outfits -- stockings and all. 

After browsing the comic book stands, Japanese Radioshacks and novelty shops, which by the way contained the predicted amount of henti and "engrish" products, I felt overwhelmed and slightly sick. My senses were bombarded with products supposedly used by a human being, black and white pencil drawings of girls being seduced by bipedal humanoids, videos with bold pink lettering covering up what seemed to be children and the smell of burnt plastic over hot wires. Soon all the stores seemed to blend together like a poorly stitched music video, cigarette burn in the top corner and the same extras in every background. I couldn't take it, so we hopped on a train.

Ever wished you could slow down time? Well you can, or at least not intentionally. In the metro station below the bowels of Akiabara, the trains were lined up parallel to each other like the gigantic locks of a linoleum dam. One train the middle, separated by a sea of people flooding the on ramp, transferring the weight from box to another. The doors opened like shutters on a space shuttle, out of sync but in a musical rhythm let out puffs of unsterile air in white fragile clouds. The men held parcells, dirty magazines and the women clutched their bodies. It was as if they were trapped in the headlights of the floor, muscle memory and darwinian logic kept them safe. 

I was standing in the middle of the metro car, holding onto a metallic poll as the door to my left geared open and a mass of people poured in like squishy marbles. Geoff fought for a seat, swishing from side to side as his beads clanked on tapped bystanders. He was victorious and claimed the seat. Geoff pulled out his walkman and turned it on, lost in the beat of some volatile break beat Once Geoff had his head phone one, he might as well be deaf. Only shiny objects and earthquakes would break him out his deep electro trance. Jacob on the other hand, who had also been successful in finding a seat was caught between the only two obese people on the car. Imagine the smallest amount of frosting between two large oreo cookies, that was Jacob. He looked miserable. I knew not to look at him because there would be a good chance he’d start laughing, get embarrassed then start looking for the quickest exit to escape his lack of social ques. 

Then the door on my right popped, then clicked and gasped and finally opened as if the gear-grease was made of sticky sugar. More squishy marbles gushed past me, back out into the sea of people. As they exited, the door on the train parallel to us opened, succinct timing for the wave to transfer from one box to the other. 

It was gross.


I had an open line of sight from where I was standing to the other train car across the sea. My peripheral vision was cut off, I could not see Geoff. I could not see Jacob. I could only see straight ahead of me. The claustrophobia of the parted sea walls were closing in -- and in that moment time stopped, and I was alone. I gaze drifted across the way and to my surprise I found that I was staring into the eyes of someone. Someone one beautiful.
She had been looking at me the whole time, or well, that's at least what my body had told me. Gentlemen, she was radiant. 

I must have been staring at her for longer than I had realized because my hands had molded to the poll by the clammy sweat of palm. Her eyes were like dream catchers, so unique that I could only see it in my sleep. Her skin was fair hair, auburn; bobbed and curtsied just under her jaw. She clutched the poll and had rings, metallic rings. There were embers painted below her eye lids and pale lips that were curving into a smile... a smile. She was looking at me, and as soon as my brain had sent the signal of realization to my body time found its proper place. It was like waking up in the middle of a high speed motorcycle chase or bracing for light speed. The doors sucked them selves as if to quarantine and the train took off like a slingshot. I was smiling, but it was too late because the only person that could see it was me; deep within the reflection of the protective glass of the train car door. As I stepped off the train moments later at the next stop, I gathered my thoughts and went home.Some moments in life are like this.
A dream and only a dream.

Zacho Fraser is an independent artist from Auckland/Wellington, New Zealand and composes music that lures you into his world. To quote two bands, it's like slipping into a fever and the sound of sugar pouring into tea -- simply good.

Find a pair of headphones or find a quiet place to chill. You'll need to be alone to fully absorb this one.

P.S. You can download his music HERE. 
You're welcome. 





My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed because I am going through chemo treatments. I was diagnosed with Multiple Meyloma at the end of July 2013, and fighting the good fight. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). Anything you give is awesome. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.

Keeping Track of History Pt. 3: In the presence of the "Secular".

 

Put down... All your weapons.
Let me in through Your open wounds...
Finding God through secular Music.

"The road to the sacred leads through the secular."  

-- Abraham Joshua Heschel

  Son Lux

Secular music verse the none secular; could that really be a... thing? Is one bad for you and the other good? What makes music sacred and what makes it secular? Or better yet, why the fuck should you care?
Through out my years as a child I grew up under a christian roof, and no the roof wasn't on fire. The patriarch was a pastor and the matriarch was his guide, following quietly in the shadowed footsteps of God.  My father used to be drummer and my grandfather played the organ like a saint, but I was never captured by the evangelical argument that music was either secular or sacred. The halls of my household echoed scores of famous composers and 60's surf swag from the Beach Boys. I was surrounded by tapes and Cd's from all walks off life. My first two cassette tapes were the Top Gun soundtrack and the Mortal Kombat soundtrack. It was very much a "wax on -- wax off" method in my room. I took it to the danger zone with  Kenny Logins, and then once Take My Breath Away by Berlin started to play I switched tape. I did my usual cool down/post work-out by destroying Lego's with the classic Liu Kang bicycle kick. It was an art. (No need to argue about that.)
During the summer months with my cousin and I blasted Metallica, Godsmack and Incubus (post Fungus Amongus) while fantasizing about what it would be like to "do" Rouge from X-Men. At the dawn of my teenage years my parents gifted me the album 13 Ways to Bleed on Stage by Cold before my open heart surgery. Their hit song was "Just Got Wicked". I'm pretty sure B-rated wrestlers from the WWE made that their intro song... I don't know what my parents were thinking, but I'm pretty sure the only reason I got away with it was because there was a small percentile that I might die the next day. 
(Prayer quickly followed).

"I can taste your innocence 

Young and sweet like mother made you 

Everything froze in to ask

These motherfuckers just got wicked..."

I'm not here to argue that Cold is more or less sacred then bands like DC Talk but I am hinting that there could be the minuet possibility. There was a moment on my hospital bed when that nurse who looked like Mr. Cleans gay father took away my Walkman. (One of those "From my cold dead hands!" moments.) He told me to count to ten backwards as I laid there in my hospital gown, wondering if I'd ever wake up after this was done. The last song I had in my head was the butt-metal anthem, Send in the Clowns, and I didn't feel afraid. Divine or not, I was comforted. 
I still like that song.

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”

― Aldous Huxley, Music at Night and Other Essays

Angus & Julia Stone

I had a conversation with a dear friend of mine long ago. Let's just call her Miranda. The subject of personal failure arose, and like an ugly head it glared back at us as if it lived in the bathroom mirror. Like Miranda, I struggled daily with the thought that I have not been living up to my fullest potential. I tended to loath my self more than the actual instances that had occurred in my life that formed and shaped me into who I am today. Miranda saw this, and she could read me like a book. But this evening she she sat in my wicker chair on my front porch like a blank page, frizzled and smoking a single cigarette. She was like an Eels song, just a beautiful freak with a lo-fi smile. 
Earlier that week she was crippled by some "holier-than-thou" boy. He spoke over her words of affliction concerning her attire and constitution. Some, or rather those with a single original thought, would find her beautiful for things like her affectionate twitch and distinctive pitter-patter of trailing thoughts, but this boy did not understand -- thus was prejudice. Make matters worse, she actually like this prick.
  
Within our culture today, maybe even in particular for women, there is the problem of self-deprecation that is brought on by the trivia of others. These moments often lead to intrusive thoughts mostly about our relationship with others. We tell our selves that we are ashamed for feeling different, third wheeling relationships, not having the prettiest husband/wife or none at all. There is this constant sense that we need to prove our selves because we were born unworthy, born without reason. We struggle to make up our dreams, goals and/or our "calling" on the spot as if to sing karaoke in front of thousands. We claim it as our own. And if we don't have nail the song in front of them, then we are fucked. 
If there is anything I've noticed from being around the block, it is this: More kids, teenagers, and adults are finding their peace through "secular" music than a sacred workshop that teaches them to clap.

"Tell me anything you want to tell me.

I have nothing to say.I have nothing to say to you,

But you have everything to say to me.

You have everything to say to me."

Son Lux

As Miranda and I sat there in the humidity of the lowering Tennessee sun, I decided to put on some music. I guess that's my calling card, but hey, it works for me. I picked the self-titled album by Son Lux and set my laptop on the ground littered with cigarette ash. My favorite song, Break, came on and I explained to her what it was about, or at least... what I assumed it was about, which lead to me saying this to her:

(Journal entry from May of 2009) The war we fight is a war for uniqueness, made by television, magazines and sexual predators. But have we lost the war if we chose to even recognize the battle? A battle that has strung us like a marionette puppet. A temperamental brand of barbed chords hiding the snare that violently adulterates and perverts it's self like a parasite into our chest. Are we really who we are or even want to be?

 
Miranda asked me to repeat the song again, and again. And each time the song repeated she had something new to say. She would comment on the bizarre opening break down, relating it to opening moments of a car crash. As she talked about the song she painted the horrific image of standing in the middle of freeway while it rained both water and ash, "searching for your friend within the twisted metal" she said. "But there's always something beautiful waiting,"

She asked me how peaceful could death really be. 
"Would it be as smooth as the piano once the drums are done fighting?", she said. 
I don't remember my exact response, but looking back on it, I can only imagine that it would be that smooth. Pain dribbling off a window like water as we sleepily count backwards from ten.

Now that I look back on it I feel like I could have put on a number of records, but it was that one and it was devine. 
It's not the genre or the classification of music that makes it bad or good, secular or sacred, but it is what is at the core of the moment. 
So when does music really mean impact us?
I believe that music means the most when we don't do anything about it. It's an apocalyptic revelation, an occurrence that brews from the soul of your gut, and you never knew it was there. Music means the most when the story of your life collides with the sincerity of the present emotion. Miranda spilled her heart out that night, but I didn't catch her nor did I even dry her tears, the music did. 

Several smokes and bathroom breaks later we started to play "pass the laptop". Miranda would typically pick something like The Ataris or Sugarcult. She would reminded me about how she saw them live, or she'd tell me again about the guy she used to date who tried to swoon her by covering "Punk Rock Princess" by Something Corporate. My insides would hurt with laughter because her ex was no garage band king, more like a prepubescent Rob Lowe.

Miranda tied her untamed hair into a topknot, patted me on the arm (to sweaty to hug) and hopped into her Honda blasting The Authority Song by Jimmy Eat World, which was a vast improvement from when she pulled up two hours before to quiet drone of Damien Rice. 
When Miranda left my front porch, she stunk of off-brand smokes and smiles, 
but more importantly

"She was back." 
As she drove home that night,  I could feel her energy for five blocks. 


Jimmy Eat World.

Yes, we did have a meaningful "bro-down" but it was more than that, it was the moment of what was playing in our hearts. It was the music that carried us both home. We didn't find it in a hymnal or a Newsboys anthem, we found the sacred meaning of love and compassion in "secular" music. I think the true argument is this: are you listening to music that is keeping you together or tearing you apart? Are you listening to music that places you in a box or music that re frames the box? 

We are a generation that is hungry for the spiritual, not a church service, but a revelation of the soul and it's painfully obvious that we can find that through the music we choose to listen to. So next time you listen to a record, break out the lyrics, figure out the chords, or paint a picture and you may be surprise by what you see and feel.

Also, here's a small challenge. Make your self a mix. Give it a name and make it important.

Shaky Graves 


My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed because I am going through chemo treatments. I was diagnosed with Multiple Meyloma at the end of July 2013, and fighting the good fight. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). Anything you give is awesome. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.

Keeping Track of History pt. 2

Faith.

   

Let me tell you about my first kiss.
I was young and ready to start junior high. Like any other boy at that age I thrived off of three things: sneaking into rated R movies, loathing my parents and an acute chesticular fascination -- or otherwise known as: boobs!. Being a young boy is never easy, and once you hit puberty it only gets worse. Around the time I had hit puberty two important things happened. First, I fell in love; secondly, I moved from California to Tennessee. I was in love with the girl that I had grown up with, Sarah. Sarah had candy brown hair, blue sapphire eyes like the ocean in disney movies and cute freckles that lined the bridge of her nose all the way down to her cheeks. I knew I was moving across the country and I had kept that from her for the longest time. I still wanted to believe that there was a chance for us -- oh the foolish things boys do.

It was the month before my departure when she told me that she liked me. My worse fear had materialized right in front of me - mutual affection. Quickly I admitted that I've had a crush on her ever since I've seen her. I've liked her before I was even able to develop feelings, you know, the kind of feelings that make you sick to your stomach but don't you out of school. I had been dreading this moment for months, the moment when I was going to have to tell her that I was moving and I won't ever be back again. Surprisingly she took it well, even better than I did. We continued to hang out and see each other in the remaining days I had left, just like it had always been. But then the day came, the day before I moved. I had previously asked her to meet me at the park, just the two of us. What better place to say goodbye than the place where we became friends.
It was dusk when we started the climb to the top of the jungle gym.
I wanted to be romantic, so with the sun shinning on my face I took off a silver ring on my finger that my mother had given me years prior. She opened up her palm immediately as if she had read my mind and smiled. I shook like a tree in the wind when I painfully dropped it in her hand. She tucked the ring away on her ring finger and held it up the light, investigating the how it felt on her hand. Then without hesitation she took off her bracelet, the black and clear one that she had always wore and she slipped it around my skinny wrist.
That bracelet was her favorite one and I had never before seen her with out it.

I stared at that bracelet.

I stared at it forever.

I could feel my face contorting. It began to disfigure into one massive puddle of a smile. The back of my neck stiffened, my jaw locked up and there were no windshield whippers on the inside of my glasses. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but before the words left my lips she silenced me with a kiss. My neck became numb and my hands, like a mussel reflex, grabbed her waist. My eyes then closed like ziplock bags full of water. A bomb could have gone off and I wouldn't have moved an inch.
I was frozen, like a stone.

As she released my lips I sat there stunned. My face was wet, but not from my tears but from hers, and my hands clung onto hers for life.
She was my girl.
The sun was no longer in my eyes but now shinning all around her like a burning shadow. It was beginning to get dark, I knew there were words left to finish but I was lost.

"I'll be back"

Yeah I said that, but who wouldn't have given the circumstances. I'd like to believe that we'd all say that. We climbed down the jungle gym, she went left towards the night while I went right towards the horizon. I watched her walk away into the warm Californian night as I walked back to an empty house. That night I laid wide awake, dreaming about her in a sleeping bag on the floor in a room full of boxes. I had wished that I had told her that I loved her, but I never did and I never saw Sarah again.

So you may be asking, "What's with the mix?". Well, this mix is a sonic representation of the events that had transpired that day. They do not follow in any type of chronological pattern nor do they even encompass all that was felt, but they are grafted in a mannor so the listener/reader can gather some semblance of being there. There is more to the legacy of Sarah V, like as to the reason we never saw each other, because I did go back for her, but for now... this is it.










The songs in order are:

.Moneen. - Are We Really Happy With Who We Are? 
The Thermals - I Might Need You to Kill
Swim Deep - Honey
The National - I Need My Girl
Noah and the Whale - The First Days of Spring
Night Beds - 22
New Found Glory - Hold My Hand

The ring had just one word inscribed on it -- Faith.

Keeping Track of History.

Keeping Track of History.

I remember burning my first CD. I was ten years old and it was for the cutest girl on the block, Sarah V. She had the perfect amount of freckles, made bracelets for boys she liked and enjoyed the original Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six computer game, I was in love. Now Sarah V. is forever a part of my music history because the CD I burned for her was Britney Spear's debut album ... Baby One More Time. I don't know how I did it, because burning CDs back in the 90's was a process, much like how I imagine making a custom leather belt could be -- but I did it and it was wonderful. Also, now that I think back on it, I wonder why no one thought it was odd to see a ten year "blonde puff" straining over a Britney Spears record... I should have a talk with my family. 
But, back to the story. 
So, I rode my bike over to her house and parked it around back, next to the huge oak tree. She was waiting out side on the wrap around porch with the little boombox that she'd had since she was five. I placed it in the tray and pressed the play button. I'm fairly positive that this is still, to this date the sweetest thing I have ever done for a girl -- the boombox had a microphone attachment, I had to sing along. 
And I did. 
I even danced for her. 
Music -- it will do crazy things to a ten year-old boys heart. 

Now at 25... sadly, I haven't sang in a long time.

I can't remember the first mix that I had received, but I want to say that it was from my now Brother-in-law, John-Michael. Now when I say I can't remember when I received it, that doesn't mean I don't remember what it felt like. I took that silver disc out of its thin jewel case and placed it into my shitty Sanyo boombox and my ears were refreshed. JM has always been my inspiration for music, especially when it comes to making mixes. So, if I had to blame anyone for my insanity when it comes to finding obscure bands... it's him. 
He taught me a very valuable lesson about mix CDs: 

They will always mean something to somebody.

Most of the time, they mean more to the craftsmen then the listener.

There are very few things that I stress over, but yet find relief through that actual stress, such as: making a cute girl laugh, writing music, encouraging friends through a hard time and making a mixtape.

All of these share the same bond with my heart, and a bond not so easily ignored - progress. When Ever I feel progress I feel good, and when I feel good, I rinse and repeat. Crafting a mix is a delicate process. I dive deep into my feelings and get my heart dirty.  It's much like sticking a hand into a pile of toys to see if  you find some distant and forgotten ... thing at the bottom. I've been practicing this self exploration for 15 years now and I have piles of distant and forgotten ... things that I've found at the bottom.

When I start the process, I begin with the foundation. It's like leading a girl up the rooftop to propose, the entrance has to be either mysterious, deceiving or inviting. You can't just blow your wad at the front door. So, it makes sense that most (good) albums start of kicking and end with that subtle acoustic track that could have been mistaken for a b-side.
But... no matter the person, place, theme, rhyme or reason, I still have many questions that roll through my head when a mix is starting to be conceived. 

How do I start it? 

Do I start the mixtape off with what I am trying to communicate? 

But what if the feeling or idea that I am trying to communicate is too heavy and boisterous, it might drive off the listener or fragment the message so they never really get the idea... 

The list goes on, and that is just for the first song. In the movie High Fidelity Barry, Jack Blacks charecter makes a mixtape and I always crack up during this scene. This might capture what I am talking about.

I'm sure you're familiar with the saying, don't judge a book by it's cover -- well don't judge a mix by it's first track. Mixes mean more than just what they look like on the surface. When music is made, it's cultivated by experiences  and often experiences that are deformed and contorted so the public can understand them. There's no way I can really grasp what Bob Segar ment in the song Night Moves, but I can guess and with that guess I can use take it as my own. 

Lovers of music spends hours, days, even sometimes weeks critically assessing the music. Rob, played by John Cusack, in High Fidelity said that we are using someones else's poetry to communicate what we are feeling. So to be the proper curator requires not only an understanding of the music, but understanding of the person it is intended for.
  

I take the time to say all of this is because I care. I care about my friends. I care about the world and how we listen to it. Mixes are one of the best ways to gather thoughts and feelings. Its one of the best mediums that we can use to display our humanity, all packaged into one little neat piece of plastic. Humans, being highly emotional, I think should take the time to understand we have the ability to talk about the difficult emotions through a mix. 

So I have crafted a couple rules in my time of "mixing". Obviously there is no bible or "how to book" on mixes, so you really don't have to take these to heart. And you are also more than welcome to email me and tell me your rules. But this is what I mentally check off when I still down in front of my stacks of CDs or files of mp3s.

1. Never repeat a band and/or artist. But only repeat an artist when the flow of music calls for it. EX: Oh The Impossible Past --> Nice Things (track #9 & #10). Track #9 is 1:33 and bleeds into track #10. Beautiful trasnition. 
2. The first three songs set the mood, don't forget that. Once the mood is set, it's hard to escape that, unless your listener just "shuffles" the mix. (asshole!)
3. Know your audience. EX: Don't make a track list based on "Oh Girlfriend" by Weezer for your Dad.
4. None of the tracks should be alphabetical order, unless you are compiling favorites from "A -> Z".
5. 70% of the mixtape should be new music for the recipient. (Unless it's just to have sex, cause really...)
6. Localize the core of the playlist. Pick a song to certain around.
7. Never have more than two cover or remix songs.
8. Always pick more songs than necessary so you have more options when it comes to cutting and/or replacing.
9. Listen to your mix several times before you even give it or post it.

My passion for music constantly challenges me in ways I never thought to imagine. 
If you have received a mix from me now you know why it took forever. I've been using the website 8tracks, so be sure to check that site out every once in awhile. I post a new mix about twice a month now.

Here's a treat for you too.

22// Night Beds

I Should Live in Salt

Trouble Will Find Me // The National pt. 1

I Should Live in Salt // The National

23 The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar.24 Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven;25 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.

So the swell begins.
Like an old phaser breathing heavy, the first track of the National's new album kicks off, or rather -- gently lets go of the dock and drifts out to sea. The technicality of the music is much like of Boxer, swerving around time signatures like drunk bees; deep simba beats likend to "Lemonworld" off of High Violet and a sincerity of "Mr. November" from Alligator (minus the screaming). The National are truly evolving and bringing the best parts of them along. Matt Berninger, the front man, never ceases to amaze me with his writing and this is just the beginning.
"I Should Live in Salt" immediately captured my attention, lyrically drawing parallels from the biblical story of Lot's wife. Berninger hums, in his soft baritone voice, as a doxology to his memories; lamenting in glory to what has passed.

"I should live in salt for leaving you behind.
Behind"

I have been a National fan ever since I've heard the opening of Boxer - Fake Empire, and I feel like I have gotten to know Berninger fairly well since then, so for him to chant that we should know him better than that, births a sinking feeling. A feeling that I and most people should be familiar with: Don't you know me yet? He croaks about large visualizations, such as the term, "writing it on the wall" but there is not enough room, or turning the television down because there is to much "crying". It creates an atmosphere that the end is near and there is nothing that can be done about it, a finale or a judgement that is about to occur. And in recent events, such as the tornados in Oklahoma, school shootings or even the war overseas, it's freakishly fitting.

Much like Lot must have felt, when he begged to stay or escape to the closest city, I imagine he was trying to communicate to the angels, you know me better than this. A common place feeling of abandonment, we've all wished to be the pillar of salt rather than the one we loved.  But the angels didn't give up on him and ushered him to safety.

So will the rest of the album usher us to safety or will it be a continuing biopic of "Lots" remorse? How far down the rabbit hole will we go, and what will Berninger show us? I'm excited.

The next piece will be on my two favorite songs: Fireproof & I Need My Girl.

Mùm

(I encourage you to press play before reading)

Welcome to the dark side of the Postal Service.

During my senior year of high school the banana-pancake Jack Johnson phase was exploding for the wannabe art kids and "accidentally  to-public" potheads, along side with that "hot fuzz" buzz by The Killers. For the band nerds and pre-teen goth kids it was AFI and The Black Eye'd Peas, peeling their way in with the sounds of emo-skunk grime. Needless to say I was apart of both of these groups, but I was also secretly keeping some music to my self. I'd drive to school listening to the local college radio station, relentless hoping that when I got to school I'd get into a verbal argument over economics or some war about "terror". But then there was Death Cab For Cutie. 

Ben Gibbard -- my nightingale. He'd let me have a good silent cry. I always felt I was long over due for an angry "dead-journal entry", so that came in handy too, but once I discovered the Postal Service, all those raw emotions and 'goofy feelings about girls' clicked. I was satisfied being melancholy but yet synthetically bubbly -- in the trendy way Lite-Brite could have been, but damn-it, it just was art!

Now that I'm in a post-graduate life, I found that I had sat down my Postal Service record sessions a long time ago (but not in a galaxy far far away...). Life had taken its course and I had gotten older. Like anyones life, there had been a series of up's and down's or "life altering" experiences/people. The shift of adulthood wasn't something I had noticed immediately, but when friends began to move away and letters from crazy ex-girl friends weren't fun to share anymore, I felt the heat of the water that had been boiling for sometime.

When I discovered Mum, I really took the time to sit down and listen to them. I don't recall the day I found them, but I'm certain that my ears felt like cellophane and my craving for a vintage smoke rocketed to it's highest potential. Their soft patterns of electro glitch beats, and kitchen noises are tucked into a whirlwind of emotion. The piano sounds like its being hit by a mallet made of silly putty, and the bass and percussion are recorded through a walkie-talkie... or gramophone. Their whole sound just screams, layers!
I felt like I did in high school when I found the Postal Service. I chanced upon a band that completes a small niche in my life. I listen to them in the car, walking to class (rain preferably) and in bed when I should be writing. 

Glass Fractal

The Album, We Finally Are No One, essentially sounds like rainy day emotion wrapped up into a glass fractal and set in front of a candle. I honestly have nothing to say about their cord progression, beat-choices, or lack of unintelligible singing, because I feel like I just can't. And like I said, its the dark side or adult version of the Postal Service. Meaning just that, its not something many people would catch if they are consumed in rotisserie pop music, regurgitated every year.
There is a work of genius here, and I suggest you listen to it.
If you like Mum you should check out: Seabear, The Album Leaf and Broadcast.