Heavily Armed And Legged (Five For Friday)

Five very random songs for Friday.

Embedding on this video has been disabled, but I suggest you start out with Johnny Guitar Watson's "Gangster of Love." His version, as opposed to Steve Miller's, has all of the drama that a song with this name should have:

"Heartbreaker" is one of my favorites by Dionne Warwick. Written by The Bee Gees, every transition, every melody, is a hit song within another hit song:

They didn't have "Oh, Sweetpea," which I was going to include if only to give you something to sing all weekend. Instead, here's Tommy Roe's other hit, "Sheila." It's not quite as saccharine as "Sweetpea," but also not as annoying.

I first heard "And When I Die" by Blood, Sweat & Tears on a long car drive. I didn't know what it was at first. I assumed I was listening to a song from a musical.

When KHITS first began broadcasting in Portland, they went deep into the vaults, playing songs that nearly made me pull my car over or stop what I was doing. One of those songs was Maria Muldaur's "Midnight at the Oasis." I bet a lot of hot-tubbing and couple swaps have happened to the tune of this song. And you'll be hard-pressed to pick just one favorite line. Pass the brandy.

If you want to see Maria Muldaur sing, here it is. (Embedding was not allowed for this version.)

Carrie Brownstein

3:26 PM ET | 01-30-2009 | permalink

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Guest Blogger: Sean Wilsey

Sean Wilsey loves The Airborne Toxic Event, a band he mercifully calls TATE. If you want to know how TATE might lead you to think about the song "Cat's in the Cradle," I suggest you continue reading. Thank you, Sean, for graciously contributing to Monitor Mix.

Back in September, Carrie was busy and asked for some blog help. Now, months later, this is no help at all -- but here are some thoughts about a band I've been unable to stop listening to, The Airborne Toxic Event.

The ridiculous name apparently comes from a Don DeLillo novel, and I first heard one of the band's songs, "Sometime Around Midnight," on the radio last spring, while I was driving my mom's minivan through Los Angeles. The lyrics reminded me of one of my candidates for worst song ever to become a semi-classic -- Richard Thompson's "1952 Vincent Black Lightning," a maudlin ballad about a sexy criminal's seduction methods, which include telling a woman, "Red hair and black leather / That's my favorite color scheme" before his deathbed bequeathal of a motorcycle to said leather-clad redhead: "And he gave her one last kiss and died / And he gave her his Vincent to ride." What filled Mom's minivan was equally overblown and absurd, yet somehow irresistible. The band seemed to have channeled this same strain of adolescent self-seriousness, but remained fun to listen to. (Thompson's song makes me want to stop living.)

TATE is a five-piece band, with a single female member (the violinist), and in "Sometime Around Midnight" it's the woman who makes the first move: "She walks up and asks how you are / So you can smell her perfume / You can see her lying naked in your arms."

There's some kind of hookup in the next few lines, but things plummet messily downhill until "you feel hopeless and homeless and lost in the haze of the wine." Soon she ends it: "Then she leaves, with someone you don't know / But she makes sure you saw her / She looks right at you and bolts / As she walks out the door, your blood boiling your stomach in ropes / Oh, and when your friends say, 'What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost!' "

This ghost line, delivered with such vocal-cord-sawing angst, made me laugh hard enough to park and listen to the rest. I am in awe of any pure, unembarrassed, artistic outpouring of portent and longing and romanticism that doesn't let you know if it is or isn't aware of its own absurdity. I love trying to figure out if a song is serious, and if that makes me like it more or less. The ending of "Sometime Around Midnight" convinced me they were winking: "Then you walk, under the streetlights / And you're too drunk to notice that everyone is staring at you / You just don't care what you look like, the world is falling around you / You just have to see her / You just have to see her / You just have to see her / You just have to see her / You just have to see her / You know that she'll break you in two."

Most writers indulge in self-seriousness, but my favorite ones have outgrown it (Conor Oberst on his last two albums), while others just move more deeply and disappointingly into it (Liz Phair on her last two albums). Without a pen, I ended up calling my own answering machine to leave myself a message with the band's name and some of the lyrics. This seemed to be in the proper self-involved spirit. Since then, I've listened to the album constantly, and it's the sound, not the lyrics (though I remember that a sticker on the CD case said something like "poetry you can dance to"), that keeps me addicted: ventriloquistic, sometimes channeling The National, sometimes U2, sometimes The Jam, shifting around so much that you can't call what the band's doing derivative. It's more ADD than kleptomania.

Also, up on YouTube, is a series of acoustic versions that reinvent the whole album:

Anyway, it's the total, self-centered romanticism that I find transcendently awesome. For more of this, here's Peter Murphy's Bauhaus:

And Andrew Eldridge (long lead-in, but worth it for the lyrics):

And, in a completely different style, Harry Chapin:

And, just to take things to an ultimate extreme, William Shatner (covering "Taxi," also by Chapin):

I didn't know he did stuff like that.

As for Richard Thompson, I just looked him up and found this, which I kind of like (the beret's a nice touch, and he can definitely play guitar):

In the comments section for this video, a fan writes, "If I tried I could not better express my passion for motorcycles and redheads better than this. What a privilege it is to share life with someone as gifted as Richard Thompson." But I hate the song. And I love The Airborne Toxic Event.

This all seems like a genre to me. Not sure what to call it.

--Sean Wilsey

Carrie Brownstein

2:22 AM ET | 01-29-2009 | permalink

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Schools Of Rock

On Saturday, I attended my first Paul Green School of Rock showcase in Portland. The show was called Best of the Season and featured highlights from the Portland and Seattle schools.

My first exposure to a rock school was in 1994, when I visited the Rock n' Roll High School in Melbourne, Australia. That being 14 years ago, I don't recall much, except that the kids formed their own bands, a compilation CD came out every so often, and the school launched the career of more than a few female Aussie musicians, including Brody Dalle from The Distillers. I do remember at the time that, despite good intentions, I wasn't convinced that the essence of rock could be institutionally conveyed -- that a scholastic approach might even be antithetical to the form itself.

Starting in the early '00s, I began volunteering at Portland's Rock n' Roll Camp For Girls, where the girls write their own songs -- the camp focuses on personal expression over technical proficiency. The culmination, naturally, is a lot of great songwriting, sloppily played. Imagine getting a present wrapped in duct tape and you get the idea. But, while a lot of great bands get on stages before they're "ready" -- and they should -- the notion of readiness itself is ridiculous when it comes to music. Who wants to only ever witness grace? And how would we know gracefulness if the opposite didn't also take our breath away?

The Paul Green School of Rock show was in some ways the opposite of the Girls Rock Camp performances. One friend called the kids "trained monkeys," but I am (for once) not so cynical. Sure, the branding of Paul Green is obnoxious, and I don't think you can teach someone how to write songs, or how to write good songs. (There are plenty of amazing guitar players, drummers and singers in the world who can't write an original part to save their lives, and who will be nothing more than noodlers at office parties, air drummers and karaoke superstars.) But there's nothing wrong with instilling a love for music. Sure, I'd rather see more funding in public schools that would allow music programs to exist and flourish, but Green's school fills a gap, and should be appreciated for doing so.

Plus, it's hard not to be in awe of 16-year-old boys who can solo on guitar better than any adult I know, or a 10-year-old girl singing "War Pigs" backed by a bunch of older teenage dudes. I'd rather watch boys and girls play music than video games any day. For one, it's more fun for the audience, and for another, it alleviates my nagging worry I about games like Rock Band -- namely, that if you're going to spend 20 hours a week playing it, you might as well learn how to play a real instrument.

As for my old fears about schools of the Paul Green ilk institutionalizing rock, I've come to think that the process of learning about music is multifaceted and varied in rituals. Not every kid has friends or parents who possess encyclopedic knowledge of music, or who have vast record collections. So if the Paul Green School of Rock is where a 12-year-old can learn about King Crimson and The Wipers, so be it. But I still believe that no amount of technical skill or lessons or historical knowledge can force magic upon a soul or put fire in a heart -- and when you witness those untaught moments, you know the difference.

Carrie Brownstein

12:45 PM ET | 01-27-2009 | permalink

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The Pride Of Portland?

Hard as I try to focus on music today -- like the amazing Quasi show I saw the other week that showcased spellbinding, outlandish new songs ("Janet Weiss is a religion," someone exclaimed behind me); the Obamastock that many of us witnessed on inauguration night; or the awesome and relatively new band Explode into Colors -- all I can think about is Portland Mayor Sam Adams, the first openly gay mayor elected in a Top 40 city. By now, you've probably heard the news: Mayor Adams admitted that he lied about sleeping with an 18-year-old intern named Beau Breedlove. (What a name! Sure, it's not quite Eileen Dover or Seymour Butts, but it's potent nonetheless.)

At least locally, reaction to the news has ranged from disappointment and anger to calls for Adams to resign to frustration that we care at all about a politician's personal life. There are also questions as to whether the affair would have mattered less or more if it were between a man and a woman. The most troubling question for many revolves around whether Adams is still being dishonest about waiting for Breedlove to turn 18 before they began any physical relations. My instinct says that Adams will resign (The Oregonian and Just Out have already called for him to do so), due mostly to the fact that the scandal and resultant chatter will become a huge distraction to both Adams and the city, thus impeding his ability to focus on the issues that really matter.

Selfishly, I'm annoyed that while the rest of the country rides a brief wave of optimism courtesy of President Obama, here in Portland -- where we pride ourselves on being nearly impervious to the pettiness that mires other cities -- we're stuck in an ethical quagmire, one that feels so... beneath us.

Portland is a highly self-conscious city -- a meta-city, if you will -- constantly in dialog with itself. The self-obsession, fomented by accolades leveled at us by everyone from The New York Times to Bon Appetit, is a product of our insularity and homogeneity, not to mention progressive politics that veer toward extremism because they're rarely tempered by opposing views. (During the last eight years, it was wasn't merely "I don't agree with Bush," but "Impeach Bush." The occasional McCain lawn sign or bumper sticker stood out as more than a simple difference of opinion. A recent Michael Pollan talk I attended felt more like a religious event than a lecture. Us Portlanders, we already know. Get it?)

Our little Northwest Eden was just waiting for a fall from grace. But instead of just getting Sam Adams out of office because he jeopardized his ability to be seen and trusted as an effective leader, we can't quite wrap our heads around the symbolism of the circumstances -- that our liberal city's gay mayor might be setting not just the public's views of gays back, but setting all of us back, including our beliefs. In other words, how can we shape this story to fit our city's idea of progress? Perhaps, in the end, we can't.

Adams' confession reminds us that, though Portland might be exceptional, we're not the exception. Wake up, Portland, and smell the coffee you're likely already smelling; people still lie to get to the top. Our unofficial city mantra, "Keep Portland Weird," has finally been dismantled, but not at the hands of chain stores and suburbanites. Instead, our city's unique status has been compromised by someone we exalted, not only for his leadership, but also for his otherness and our ability to look beyond that. Now, we're forced as a city to feel what we fear the most: utterly, shamefully, normal.

Carrie Brownstein

7:10 PM ET | 01-22-2009 | permalink

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Eight Years Gone

In a matter of hours, we'll put the presidency of George W. Bush behind us. (His legacy, of course, is another matter entirely.) While much of the nation is looking ahead, singing along to Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" at the Barack Obama inauguration concert without an ounce of irony, I'd like to take this moment to reflect upon what we're leaving behind. Specifically, I'm thinking of the music that arose during the last eight years -- the bands and songs that wrestled with the fear, uncertainty, disenchantment and frustration that for many people defined the Bush era and the events that unfolded during his tenure.

1. My co-worker Robin Hilton reminded me of Granddaddy's "He's Simple, He's Dumb, He's the Pilot" (released in 2000) as a good place to start, so I will. However, like Bush's presidency itself, there's very little in the months leading up to Sept. 11, 2001, that I remember in terms of music. But it's interesting to note that Granddaddy's song existed well before the rest of the world caught up with its sentiment.

"He's Simple, He's Dumb, He's The Pilot:"

2. Bush's approval rating did not begin anywhere near the paltry 22 percent it's at now. After Sept. 11, the public's approval of the president soared, and in the fragile months that followed, criticism of the administration seemed tantamount to treason, with protest a betrayal and ideologies straying from the status quo widely deemed anti-American.

Musically speaking, 2001-03 was right before most bands would really embrace home recordings as anything other than demos. This was before they were so frequently willing to bypass the press juggernauts and just release an MP3 on a blog; consequently, sonic responses to Sept. 11 and the subsequent wars with Afghanistan and Iraq were slim and slow to arrive. The first tunes we did hear were anthems like Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)" and Neil Young's "Let's Roll" -- songs that seemed the only appropriate, or available, musical responses to the terrorist attacks. Lugubrious? Jingoistic? Cheesy? Sure, but also summarizing and uniting, at least for some.

As a side note, I randomly bought the System of a Down album Toxicity in 2001. It must have been because the music was angry. I remember hearing the title track on the radio and feeling relieved that the sound of agitation -- which is how some of us were beginning to feel -- was on the airwaves. I don't think I was the only one to embrace the band during that time. (On a later album, System of a Down's "Soldier Side" contained more trenchant Bush criticisms.)

3. At first, they crept in from the fringes, but the songs of protest and questioning did arrive. Steve Earle's "John Walker's Blues," about John Walker Lindh, was one of the first, and it drew sharp criticism. My own band, writing and recording our fifth record during the winter of 2001, put more than a few songs about Bush and the war on what was to become One Beat -- specifically "Combat Rock" and "Faraway." It's interesting to note that, upon the album's release in early 2002, interviewers focused on the so-called risk we were taking by including those songs. Yet by the end of that year, I was featured on NPR's Talk of the Nation as one of four artists across various disciplines who had criticized the Bush administration. The tide was turning. In 2002 and 2003, compilation CDs such as Rock Against Bush and Peace Not War -- which included everyone from Foo Fighters to Yo La Tengo to Public Enemy -- were fairly common in record stores.

"John Walker's Blues:"

"Combat Rock:"

4. Though Bruce Springsteen played "The Rising" at Obama's inauguration concert, in 2002 I saw him on tour for the album of the same name. The record felt like a survey of that year -- embodying not only protest but also pride, as only Springsteen can manage. He told the small stories, and by telling them, he was able to capture the contradictions and complexities of not just his characters' feelings, but ours as well. Whereas the government had been attempting to simplify and reduce the world into good vs. evil and us vs. them, The Rising came as a relief. But it also marked the return of Springsteen and his influence on contemporary music -- not just in style, but also in substance. Without The Rising , we might never have gotten Arcade Fire's own protest song, "Intervention."

The Rising:

"Intervention:"

5. The Dixie Chicks' "Not Ready to Make Nice" spoke of the stifling narrowness gripping both semantics and ideology during the Bush administration. Though the band was singing about its own vilification following a critique of the president, many related to its sense of disbelief and anger.

"Not Ready to Make Nice:"

6. In 2004, Green Day's American Idiot gave a mainstream, platinum-selling voice to the protest movement of the time. With the title track and songs like "Holiday" and "Wake Me Up When September Ends," Green Day produced anthem after anthem, making rebellion not only patriotic, but also poppy, the way kids like it.

"Holiday:"

7. Bright Eyes' performance of "When the President Talks to God" on The Tonight Show With Jay Leno marked one of the gutsiest moments I'd seen on network television in a long time. In my mind, in terms of ballsiness, it was second only to Kanye West's famous remark -- "George Bush doesn't care about black people" -- during a live Hurricane Katrina telethon. (West's song "Crack Music" was his musical version.) Both moments felt raw and unrehearsed, in contrast with the polished precision of the Bush administration.

"Crack Music:"

8. Many other songs during the last eight years used their own sonic lexicon to either subtly or pointedly reference a sense of dissatisfaction, powerlessness and rising vitriol. Wilco's "Ashes of American Flags," from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, is particularly powerful, though the band's entire body of work evokes much of the last eight years for me. Perhaps it's the sadness in the songs, which tell tales of division, crumbling and something always just shy of reconciliation.

"Ashes of American Flags:"

Other powerful examples spring to mind: Nine Inch Nails' "The Hand That Feeds." The Decemberists' "16 Military Wives." Quasi's "White Devil's Dream." Eminem's "Mosh." The Shins' "So Says I." Ted Leo + The Pharmacists' "Bomb Repeat Bomb." Pearl Jam's "Bush Leaguer" and "World Wide Suicide." Neil Young's "Let's Impeach the President." The Thermals' "Pillar of Salt."

"16 Military Wives:"

"The Hand That Feeds:"

"So Says I:"

Certainly, music in the time of George W. Bush was not limited to protest songs. Many artists acted as more of a soothing salve, or rejected a musical relationship with current events altogether. There was the '80s revival of Interpol, Franz Ferdinand and The Bravery; there were the catchy phenomena of Justin Timberlake, The Postal Service and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah; there was OutKast's massive hit "Hey Ya." (Though OutKast did not shy away from politics; see "B.O.B." from Stankonia.)

In the last few years, the songs and struggles have tended toward the internal: A lot of music has become as personalized and intimate as the means of recording it. There's a widespread sense of weariness and reflection in place of fury, alongside a hard-earned desire to dance, celebrate and escape. But, like the end of the Bush era itself, those recent musical trends are the denouement. The lasting musical embodiment of the Bush administration will be the songs with teeth -- the ones that weren't afraid to snarl back at bared fangs.

Please add your own list of songs that encapsulate the last eight years for you.

After which, we can look towards the future.

Carrie Brownstein

2:24 PM ET | 01-19-2009 | permalink

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120 Minutes

The other day, I found a VHS tape labeled "120 Minutes" in a box in my attic. In order to play the tape, I had to set up my VCR, which was buried on the floor of my den under a stack of DVDs. When I put the tape in, it revealed a part of my high-school years that I had nearly forgotten: the year wherein I'd set up my family's VCR to record MTV's Sunday-night alternative video program.

My obsessive recording of radio and TV programs began in elementary school. On Saturday mornings, I would sit on my bedroom floor next to a boom box, a blank tape inside the player poised to record Rick Dees' Weekly Top 40. It was tricky to capture the song without the DJ's long-winded intro. Usually, Dees would talk over the first few seconds of the tune, so you had to sit there with your finger on the pause button waiting for the exact right moment to let go -- after the exposition but before the singing began. And then you had to be there for the end of the song -- also, inevitably, interrupted by chatter. In order to achieve perfection, the entire process of recording the show required constant attention.

The next week, the ritual would be repeated. I would either add on to or record over that tape, update it with newer tunes, or try for a better (less DJ-polluted) version of a previously recorded favorite. I was fickle and catholic in my taste. The songs on the tapes varied from hair metal, like Cinderella or Ratt, to solo Phil Collins and Huey Lewis and the News. There were Squeeze songs, tales of love as sung by the mulleted Richard Marx, and pop courtesy of Martika and Tiffany. The result was a commercial-free mix tape that played like a diary of that week's hit songs -- albeit with abrupt and jolting endings to each musical sentence.

But it was 120 Minutes that opened up my world. The host at the time, Dave Kendall, might have been my first "friend" from across the pond. Taken with his dyed black hair and soft demeanor -- his hands either overly expressive or tucked away behind his back, his hips swaying when he spoke as if he were somewhat awkwardly giving a report in front of a class -- I hung on his every accented word.

I didn't love all the videos, though out of dedication to Dave -- and with that teenage doubt that makes you question your own taste -- I certainly tried. But in the end, I would usually fast-forward through bands like Catherine Wheel and Inspiral Carpets.

If it weren't for 120 Minutes, I would never have heard The Stone Roses or the handful of other British bands following a still-extant tradition of U.K. artists whose music never arrives with the same force (if it arrives at all) on these shores. My affection for The Stone Roses -- which began with a wall-sized poster of them on my bedroom wall and culminated in London a few years ago when I saw the drummer, Reni, in a kabob shop and almost tripped over myself -- still exists as a separate entity compared to the other music I was listening to at that time in my life. Perhaps this is due to the fact that 120 Minutes was itself an island -- rarely communicating or crossing over with the rest of MTV or even radio. The insularity of 120 Minutes, of course, was why it was so crucial and influential.

Here are a few videos I watched (and recorded) in those days.

Stone Roses, "Waterfall"

Stone Roses, "Elephant Stone"

The Charlatans, "The Only One I Know"

Kate Bush, "Wuthering Heights"

Psychedelic Furs, "Love My Way"

XTC, "Senses Working Overtime"

The Primitives, "Crash"

The Sundays, "Here's Where the Story Ends"

And check out Soul Asylum's "Cartoon."

Carrie Brownstein

2:11 PM ET | 01-16-2009 | permalink

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Olden Oldies

In Sean Wilsey's brilliant and exhilarating memoir, Oh! The Glory of It All, there's a passage wherein Sean and his high-school chums -- tucked away in a bucolic Italian town -- dance to all that is available to them, which is next to nothing: 1950s bubble gum and early '60s pop. He specifically cites the horrific Cyrkle tune (penned by Paul Simon) "Red Rubber Ball." I'd like to note that there are actually two rubber-ball songs from that era, and that they both suck. The aforementioned song contains the line, "The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball," while the Bobby Vee tune goes, "Like a rubber ball, I'll come bouncing back to you." Great, so one's chorus conjures an apocalyptic dawn and the other a jaunty stalker.

In the Glory passage to which I refer, Wilsey and his friends -- due to isolation and circumstance -- find a way to embrace the song. But it reminded me that there are certain periods of music to which I can't quite relate.

During my more fervent record-hunting days, I picked up a lot of early- and mid-'60s records featuring clean-cut bands with mop tops and V-neck sweaters. Most of the album covers look the same, with bouquets of men in various arrangements. In my youthful ignorance and curiosity, and in pre-Internet and YouTube days, the only way to determine who was better between Jay and the Americans and Jay and the Techniques was to actually purchase the albums. How else to determine that The Turtles were a lesser beast than The Byrds? In the end, I bought them all: Herman's Hermits, Beau Brummels, Manfred Mann, Gerry and the Pacemakers. And as hard as I tried to embrace songs such as "I Like It" or "I'm Into Something Good," the music felt different from The Stones, The Small Faces, The Kinks, or the endless garage, soul and psych LPs that I'd track down later. What it felt like was my parents' music.

Why does one sound constitute a generational divide, while another lights pathways between them? Why have I kept my father's Neil Young albums while bringing the Chad Mitchell Trio LPs to Goodwill? I suppose we could talk about the timelessness of certain sounds, but then someone else might consider The Beatles outdated. Or grunge. What about Hank Williams, Julie London and Frank Sinatra? And what is it about certain music that makes it feel not only bygone but also powerless and small? No matter how large an artist loomed in the past, it's as if they can't crawl out of the speakers in the modern age without the conspicuous, killjoy, effacing tag of "golden oldies."

For a second, our "parents' music" might make us feel youthful, or perhaps affectionate with remembrances. But there's a joylessness that seeps in once the moment has been drained of nostalgia. I think the unease is created by a sense that not everything other people make -- or that we make -- will be loved, or will even last; it's impermanent. Our own dismissal of the past is merely a foreshadowing of future disappearances. I suppose, what we deem as "parents' music" depends what we're willing to let go of and leave behind. In other words, some crap -- and I use that term in a wholly subjective sense -- just isn't going to stick around.

So, while there's plenty of our families' music that we've assimilated into our own collections and hearts, what music is so confounding and unrelatable as to be called "parents' music?"

Lastly, and just for fun, here are the dreaded "red rubber ball" tunes. Warning: Both will stick in your head:

Carrie Brownstein

12:55 AM ET | 01-13-2009 | permalink

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Five For Friday

Garotas Suecas "Nao Espere Por Mim"

Garotas Suecas are playing tonight in NYC and have a few more shows in the US. Check out their tour dates here.

Os Mutantes "Panis Et Cirenses"

Gal Costa "Divino Maravilhoso"

The Count Five "Psychotic Reaction"

The Seeds "Pushin Too Hard"

Carrie Brownstein

11:58 AM ET | 01- 9-2009 | permalink

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Garotas Suecas

For the past few days, I've been in New York City. Last night, I went over to Williamsburg to see a friend's boyfriend's band play a free show at a small club called Zebulon. I liked the space immediately: low light, low stage, a wide-open floor in which to see the music, a Fellini film being projected on the wall, and reggae music courtesy of the DJ. After the boyfriend's band (American Tenants) played, there were mumblings that the next act was a fantastic garage band from Brazil. I had every intention of heading back over the bridge, but I took one look at the Welcome Back, Kotter appearance of the guitarist and decided to stick around.

The band is called Garotas Suecas, and I urge you to remember the name. Within two songs, I went from sitting at a table nodding my head to the front row -- only about eight Brooklynites were willing to dance -- at which point I became that person standing in front of the lead singer basically losing my mind. I am 34 years old. It has literally been a decade since I went up to a stage, closed my eyes, danced like a fool and never wanted the moment to end. All I kept thinking was that I wished everyone I knew could witness this show.

Garotas Suecas has six members: five boys and a girl. I call them boys and girls because their ages range from 19 (the drummer) to 24 (the singer). The musicianship in the band far exceeds most groups you'll witness these days, but not in a showy, wanky, excessive way -- in the way you'd imagine having your jaw drop at the sight of the Hi Rhythm Band or The Jackson 5 in their heyday. Yet more than the band members' ability to riff, pound or harmonize is the way they allow themselves to be consumed by the music they're playing. They travel somewhere during the songs, unafraid to leave the audience or the room, which leaves two options for the listeners: Get left behind or go along. Garotas Suecas shouldn't merely be listened to or witnessed; they should be absorbed.

So what's the sound? In their words: garage/soul/rock. Yes, they'll remind you of Os Mutantes and the like, but Garotas Suecas is more revelation than resurrection.

Check out the band's MySpace page for tour dates and information.

Listen to "Eu"

Listen to "Bugalu"

Carrie Brownstein

12:36 PM ET | 01- 6-2009 | permalink

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Dance This Mess Around

Let's have the first post of 2009 be about dance. Though I couldn't quite get it together on New Year's Eve to put my dancing shoes on, I did hear stories from friends, all of whom told tales of professional, semi-pro and amateur DJs whose one goal was to get people out onto the floor and make sure they stayed there.

My history with impromptu dance parties -- in my opinion, the best kind -- goes back to Olympia, Wash. Usually, there was only one turntable and a small stack of records courtesy of whoever lived in the house or apartment. The time it took for the DJ (and I use this term in the loosest sense) to take one record off and put another one on was when we all took a moment to catch our breaths. Hardly anyone populated the edges of the floor; you were sucked into the movement by force, even if dancing meant merely flailing about or continuing your conversation. Everything occurred in the center. We danced to garage, mod and punk -- it was all about the guitar buzz and the foot-stomp, our form reckless and amateur. The two songs I recall boosting the collective enthusiasm were The Who's "My Generation" and "London Calling" by The Clash.

One specific dance party I remember occurred after my band played a show in Syracuse, N.Y. In a rare moment of willingness, we followed some students to a house party. There, we sipped cheap alcohol in plastic cups (fill a cup with vodka, add just enough soda to turn it brown), raided cheese plates, and sat on carpeted stairs -- the kind where you make a mental note to wash whatever pants you're wearing later. I don't know if anything was playing on the stereo; perhaps it was one of those mid-'90s small-town indie bands whose music you could knock over with a feather. Just when we were on the verge of leaving, my bandmate Janet found the record shelves, grabbed the first B-52's album and put on "Rock Lobster." Within seconds, the party shifted from awkward clusters to bold comets -- strange how noise can transmogrify a room.

Recently, a friend called me and said that some of our cohorts might be taking over a bar for the night, and that we'd take turns playing records. I immediately started going through stacks of 45s. With only my dogs in the room, I'd put on a record and try to gauge whether the song was danceable. Was the song's effect immediate enough? Was the intro too long? Was it too fast or slow? Did it have an unwieldy breakdown that would confound? I pulled out all of my soul, R&B and blues records first. But I also wanted to throw in some '80s and garage tunes. Then I wondered if consistency of genre was important. Worst of all, what song might become the dreaded Zamboni? You know, the one that clears the floor.

I'm not a DJ, so most of my dance-music experience has been as a participant. I'll dance to almost anything as long as I'm not the only one on the floor. I'll stop dancing if the song is too cheesy, too fast or just one that I can't stand. Company B's "Fascinated"? Sure. UB40's "Red Red Wine"? No thanks.

So, what are some of your favorite dance-party moments? What songs get you onto the floor? Conversely, what song will make you leave?

Carrie Brownstein

5:13 PM ET | 01- 5-2009 | permalink

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