There eventually comes a time when my best kept secrets (Seabear, for instance) become the exploitation of teenage dramas and the Old Navy in-store soundtrack. For some, it’s definitely too late. Whatever I have to say about Grizzly Bear, for example, has already been said a hundred times over. But some of my favorite musical gems, so far, remain untouched. And this is where I swoop in to embarrass myself and call it a form of justice.
This deceptively British sextet, the Melodica, the Melody and me, employs a healthy dose of melodica, charango, guitar, and kora over a soft (but not lacking) soundtrack of percussion. But with this odd instrumentation, the group has stumbled upon what could possibly be the perfect folk formula for success. Or at least bliss. If you think Dylan had it right, you obviously haven’t heard what these Brits can do.
The band’s muted Americana feel benefits most from the soothing choice of vocals, often a call-and-answer of male and female. The balance is perfection. The saccharine mellows of the unambitious female vocals act like a honey to the rich, mahogany brew of the tender male tenor. And amidst this is the delightful aroma of mountain music, docile yet intricate. The genius finger plucking and clever layering of melodica create the perfect tranquility of being, draining from the listener every worry and evoking both innocence and wisdom to learn from. Despite the complex musicianship at work here, the song structures are simple. But they are glorious. The melodies are not forceful and the percussive influence, whether it be a rolling piano strain or the gentle trucking of a snare, is never tiresome.
The tragedy remains, however. This gem has not yet released an album or EP, only eight heavenly tracks online, two of which are live recordings and one of which is unable to download. So, I leave you with the five I’ve been listening to for over two years now, hoping you will enjoy them as much as I have. Happy listening.
This is a post simply to unveil a new blog of mine. After careful consideration of several factors—my growing number of followers, the blog’s history, and a dislike of being bothersome—I have decided that instead of posting a number of drafts I have written based on fashion here, I will be doing it at another blog, called avoir. The blog will serve as a fashion journal of personally styled outfits and ideas concerning the fatshion community.
This blog will, of course, remain. It will focus on the same things it has, mainly inspiration, art, and music. You may still see fashion editorials from time to time, but they are here in the spirit of inspiration.
I feel as though fashion blogging, especially my specific brand of it, cannot (and will not) appeal to the CoF readership. But I have decided that practice in both arenas of journalism will prove beneficial to me. Other reasons exist for starting the project called avoir. but I will not bore you with them here.
So I haven’t been around much, as I had predicted. Being back home with my family and friends and without my usual computer and files and routines has been a huge distraction from the Internet altogether. Now that I’m back after so long, the challenge will be to gain back some blogging momentum but right now I just want a break to recap my holiday so that I can start afresh. Nothing special or even particularly entertaining, just a few thoughts on the new year and what I’ve been up to.
I’m not usually one for new years or the resolutions that accompany them, but seeing as how this year is so special and already so different (I’m happy, in college, loving my body for the first time in my life, and more unafraid than ever), I decided I’d document some semblance of first-of-the-year promises to myself.
Get a job or internship. Absolutely the most important on this list. I hope it doesn’t take a year for this to happen. If you know anything, don’t be afraid to drop me a line.
Start my Etsy shop. Got a name, got a banner, got the mindset. But that’s about it. I need to have funds, supplies, and available inventory. I want to make this happen by summer.
Always dress well and always be documenting my evolving style. With my new confidence and an adolescence I will soon be abandoning (turning 20 this year!), I am vowing to take my style even further. I’m starting another blog to see through the second part of this promise. Plans for the blog to debut before February. (And maybe tomorrow!)
Make this blog even better. More reviews (because that’s what I love most), more for you to look at, features (maybe?), and just a better overall blog experience. Send suggestions/music or artists you’d like me to review <a href=”http://www.formspring.com/forms/?768846-0VJcvrFuXT”>here</a>.
But enough of these silly promises.
This holiday, I decided to revisit my Czech roots and bake a few traditional treats. These are the most amazing cookies ever, vanilkove rohlicky. In English, they are called vanilla crescents, hence their funny shape. I also baked bread! Using a traditional recipe, my mother and I made vanocka, a beautiful, braided Czech Christmas bread. I didn’t get a picture of it, however, but the bread didn’t taste near as wonderful as those simple little cookies (bread is just difficult to get right). And, to top it all off, I also made a sauerkraut soup for lunch that day. All of this was Christmas Eve. I watched Rudolph and all of the other classics and basked in the light of our beautiful (albeit eclectic) tree.
All the while, a feisty little blizzard was blowing outside. Wait. What?
It’s true. Texas got snow. We ended up getting about ten inches of this awful stuff. Roads were closed, people were stranded, I didn’t see anyone but my parents for days. I did finally get away, though (a good thing, because I had cabin fever of Jack Torrance proportions) to do the thing I spent practically all break doing: shopping and sneaking out of my house at night (sneaking so as not to wake up my easily frightened dog).
I also ate out a lot, had a Hanukkah party, went clubbing at a gay bar and saw a drag show, got drunk a lot, had a lot of nail parties with my sister, wore a lot of scarves, and was mad sick for half of it. But, damn, it was nice. Now I’m back, trying to get my shit together. Back to regular programming very soon, I promise. In the meantime, what do you resolve for the new year? How was your break?
Just some beautiful things. My finals are fast approaching and then I’m off for a month of break. Unfortunately, I can’t promise much in this span of time, but I will try my best.
Tell me what you’d like to see more or less of. Tell me what you had for breakfast. Tell me what you dream about. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me something, anything.
Haven’t done one of these in a while, so let’s fucking do this right.
Emerging from a weekend of listening to a predictable lineup of generic indie bands who have taken quite literal approaches to the post-punk revival (read: Cut Copy sound exactly like Talking Heads and Black Kids sound exactly like the Cure), it’s nice to kick back with something completely original: the hell-raising, boot-stomping hoot-a-nannies of “cemetery western” band, O’Death. (Note: Never in my life have I actually uttered the word “hoot-a-nanny”)
This New York quintet of unruly hounds cite a heavy influence of Americana folk and bluegrass styling, evident in their flagrant abuse of banjo, fiddle, and the forced, manic twang of lead Greg Jamie’s vocals. But despite the knee-jerk reactions to write them off as just a country band with gothic flair, no such haphazard genre labeling can hold O’Death. In the saloon atmosphere of their dusty folk, soaked in whiskey and treated by a panicked fiddle, is the unmistakable, ceaseless energy and attitude of punk. While the Mohawks and leather jackets have been replaced with beards and indie brogues, the brutality remains. The music is gloriously wicked and volatile, led by junkyard percussion, paint buckets, fence posts, empty Jack Daniels jugs, motorcycle chains, and washboards all subject to the genius flailing of resident noisemaker David Rogers-Berry.
And in this carefully concocted brew of raucously archaic, melancholy style, one reminiscent of Tom Waits’ “Cemetery Polka,” Jamie croaks out lyrics of burning flesh, sin, and lost teeth. Though the lead can sing (as he proves on their latest, more accessible release, Broken Hymns, Limbs and Skin), he often opts not to, adding to their fractured, boisterous celebrations of the Old West (and infrequently subdued Appalachian dirges) a level of charm not to be appreciated by just anyone.
Though the “blackgrass” boys of O’Death have graduated from this “fuck it” attitude in their latest, an album released by a band reformed of their youthful fervor by the death of a band mate’s fiancée, O’Death’s sound has become less crumbled, Pagan chaos and more focused (even catchy), cathartic solace. The band’s lyrics, too, of moonshine and murder, now hold a greater significance and a stronger pull of emotional gravity, making it even more apparent how invaluable it is to stand alone every once in awhile.
Check out:
This video sums the band up perfectly and blows everything I just said right out of the water.
We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest, shedding skin faster than skin can grow, and armed with hammers, feathers, blunt knives: words, to meet and to define and to… but you must know the same games that we played in dirt, in dusty school yards, have found a higher pitch and broader scale than we feared possible. Someone must be picked last, and one must bruise, and one must fail. And that still twitching bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly. We dug deep and threw its elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole, and then rushed out to kill something new, so we could bury that too. The first chapters of lives almost made us give up altogether, pushed toward tired forms of self-immolation that seemed so original. I must- We must never stop watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop peering in windows when we know doors are shut, stop yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows… My voice will scratch to yell many more. But before I spill the things I mean to hide away, or gouge my eyes with platitudes of sentiment, I’ll drown the urge for permanence and certainty, crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in wet cement.
This song is applicable to everything. Expect a post tomorrow.
