As many of you have likely surmised by now — and as referenced in my recent post on All Songs Considered — the time has come for me to officially conclude my blog.

Instead, I will focus on three projects that take up nearly all of my time: One is Portlandia, a sketch comedy show that I developed and wrote with Fred Armisen (Saturday Night Live) for the IFC Channel.  The second is a book I've been working on for more than a year called The Sound of Where You Are, to be published by Ecco/HarperCollins, if I could ever finish that damn thing. Finally, I have a new band called WILD FLAG.

If you're wondering what else I do, well, I hang out with my dog, watch Mad Men, try in vain to find a sofa, and drive my car to and from the mechanic. Also, I have friends. Oh, and Robin Hilton just popped into my head (he does that all the time; it's disturbing) and wanted me to say that I listen to NPR on member station OPB and that I read NPR Music. I'll also contribute periodically to the All Songs Considered blog, and hope to appear on the show from time to time.  In the meantime, there's also the best of Monitor Mix for you to browse.

Truth be told, I will greatly miss Monitor Mix and being a part of the larger NPR Music family. Music has always been my constant, my salvation. It's cliché to write that, but it's true. From dancing around to Michael Jackson and Madonna as a kid to having my mind blown by the first sounds of punk and indie rock, to getting to play my own songs and have people listen, music is what got me through. Over the years, music put a weapon in my hand and words in my mouth it backed me up and shielded me, it shook me and scared me and showed me the way; music opened me up to living and being and feeling. Writing for Monitor Mix was part of that musical continuum, particularly the ways in which I was able to connect with other music fans. If nothing else — if someone was trying to figure me out, who am I, what exactly I do — well, that's it. I'm a fan.

So, thank you to NPR Music — the readers, arguers, commenters, agreers and disagreers. Writing Monitor Mix was a very edifying and inspiring few years. I learned a lot from you, I had fun, and it was the least lonely of times.

Something to remember as we go forward: Don't be afraid.

Love, Carrie

Hello readers. I am taking a break from Monitor Mix in order to work on some other projects. Check back later for more updates. Thanks!

5 videos for the weekend!

From the rooftops of Amsterdam, here is Quasi playing their song "Rockabilly Party" from their phenomenal album, American Gong.

Here's a joke that you may or may not have already heard:

A guy goes on vacation to a tropical island. As soon as he gets off the plane, he hears drums. From that moment on, everywhere he goes, he continues to hear the drumming: He goes to the beach, he hears drums; he eats lunch, he hears drums; he goes on a hike, he hears drums. When he tries to go to sleep, he hears drums.

This goes on for several nights, and it gets to the point where the guy can't sleep at night because of the drums. Finally, he goes down to his hotel's front desk.

When he gets there, he asks the manager, "Hey! What's with these drums? Don't they ever stop?"

The manager says, "No, the drums must never stop; something very bad will happen if they do."

"What?"

"Bass solo."

Zing!

I've been thinking a lot about bass solos lately, because my friend Patrick has been leaving a series of them on my voice mail. It's as if Les Claypool himself is calling me, serenading me with four heavy strings and a thumb.

Then I thought: If one bass solo could make my day, how would I feel after hearing 10 bass solos, or 20? More importantly, how would you feel? I bet you would feel heavy, as in heavily awesome.

So, let's get low. Monitor Mix is holding a BASS SOLO CONTEST! Please send in audio or video of yourself playing a bass solo — it can be an original solo or a cover. The deadline is Friday, May 28th at 5 p.m. PDT. Send your entries to:

monitormix@npr.org

I'll put the top entries on the blog, and we'll put them to a vote. The winning solo will receive some NPR-related prizes, not to mention bragging rights.

Plus, we'll throw in this: A copy of the Superchunk 7" "Crossed Wires" autographed by bass player Laura Ballance. By the way, Superchunk is going on tour! (And check out this video for Superchunk's "Cast Iron"/"The First Part.")

Please read the NPR Terms of Use before you enter the contest. Or, just watch this video about orphaned sloths.

There was a time right after I graduated high school when I sat around listening to Bay Area punk. I had a friend who was obsessed with a relatively new band called Green Day, and who made me crushed-out mixtapes full of romantic bands like Blatz, Screaching Weasel and Operation Ivy. The music was faster, wordier and more flip than the muddier, minor-chord-driven angst of Pacific Northwest rock, but I like its flippancy and the fact that the bands had a sense of humor.

At the core of my Bay Area punk re-education were three iconic entities: Alternative Tentacles, Lookout! Records and Maximum Rocknroll. The two labels, particularly Lookout!, I would end up having a relationship with for years to come. MRR — a fierce and unapologetic fanzine that has been around since the early '80s — always felt like a hallowed and mysterious presence. The black-and-white images paired with an unadorned layout spoke to the strident nature of the publication. MRR was serious; it was both the source and the soothsayer. I would devour its dense and esoteric music coverage, newsprint smudging my fingertips, wondering if my young suburban self could ever live up to the ethos preached and lauded therein. I didn't even like all the music MRR wrote about, I just loved how much they loved it; how their singular mission was to elevate punk above all else. The fanzine took a stand and never stopped standing there. An immovable force.

This year, Maximum Rocknroll released a photo issue, something they haven't done for a long time. Unfortunately, the issue is already sold out, but Wired.com has a bunch of the photos on their site for your perusal, some of which I've included in this post.

5 Videos For The Weekend

Yesterday, I was listening to Love and Rockets when I realized that I love that band so much more than Bauhaus. From the ashes of Bauhaus, Love and Rockets transformed its grandiosity and excesses into boldness and virtuosity. Plus, it wasn't afraid of a catchy hook or two.

In the the high-stakes and elitist world of music collecting and fandom, we operate from an ab ovo perspective. The seed, the first incarnation — that is the most pure, the most lauded. Minutemen trumps Firehose, Throwing Muses beats Belly, Joy Division over New Order, Operation Ivy ruled Rancid, Undertones instead of That Petrol Emotion. Even going back to earlier decades — Cream vs. solo Clapton, Small Faces vs. Humble Pie — we tend to favor a musician's earliest accomplishment. (Furthermore, but slightly off topic, us music snobs, as a means of differentiating ourselves from newer fans who've arrived late to the party, exhalt first records over second or third.)

On occasion, however, despite the learned hierarchy of placing the original at the top and subsequent endeavors further down, we fall in love with an artist's second or even third attempt. We go for The Hold Steady when we could never quite go for Lifter Puller, we understand Le Tigre in a way we didn't quite get Bikini Kill, and we can listen to Wilco because they got rid of the twang of Uncle Tupelo.

These aren't solo or side projects; these are different bands. And, for some reason or another, sometimes it's a musician's later attempts that speak to us more clearly, more concisely. That's the case with me and Love and Rockets. A new tale to tell, indeed.

Please share your examples of musicians whose second, third or fourth bands you love far more than their first.

The other day, I came across a list of roadie rules over on boingboing.net. The rules were on a flier found hanging in the house of a former hard-rock roadie; writ upon it was a code by which to live. Titled "The Ten Commandments of Rock and Roll," the rules are self-effacing, bordering on masochistic; they obliterate the roadie's personal needs, replacing them with the goal of working toward the greater good of the tour — or, more specifically, the benefit of the band. Spare and utilitarian as it is, the list conjures up scenes from the most debauched tales of touring, like the ones chronicled in Hammer of the Gods or Motley Crue's Dirt. I imagine (or hope, I suppose) that the commandments represent an antiquated mode of roadiedom, though they certainly represent a timeless mode and mindset of work itself. These days, the rules on the flier are just as likely — if not more likely — to be tacked to the wall (or embedded on the brain) of a corporate employee always on the verge of Dilbertian ennui. And the list is relatable to anyone who has suffered through years of working toward someone else's grandiose dream.

When my own band used to tour, we joked about our lack of Behind the Music-worthiness. There were no groupies or drugs, no ant-snorting or trashed hotel rooms; just a handful of books and computers scattered around the dressing room, perhaps a bottle of whiskey with a few ounces missing. (I still have a bottle of Jameson that I took home at the end of a tour. Sad, so sad.) The hedonistic lifestyle is difficult to achieve when you're still carrying your own gear. Trust me that you don't feel glamorous with a 60-pound amp in your arms; it's a lot less sexy than toting a vodka gimlet and impossible to do in heels. You want to make out? Here, hold my Vox AC30.

One night at Oberllin College we did manage to come up with some guidelines for tour.

The rules of the road are something we all fantasize about, especially as fans. We want access to that secret underbelly of touring — the pre-show rituals, the making of the set list and the outlandish rider requests (a young woman intelligent enough to discuss current events and who lives no more than a $10 cab ride away from the venue, removal of all brown M&Ms, dwarves, a doctor on hand to give B12 shots, etc.). These are our way of knowing — of further understanding — how the artists we love transform from their often inchoate recorded presence into a palpable and corporeal one. It's access to the touring life and stories that provide clues into who these musicians might be as people; we yearn to know their rituals and the cadences of their days and nights, hours and minutes.

Even though the "Ten Commandments of Rock 'N' Roll' is for and by the roadie, it's still a glimpse into whom they're working for. The flier tells its own story — one of loyalty and of subjugation, but also one of intense roadie pride.

If you were to make your own list of commandments for your job, rock or otherwise, what would that be?

Definitely don't miss out on the Loggins and Messina video! Happy Mother's Day.

A few weeks ago, the minicomic Henry and Glenn Forever made its debut at the Stumptown Comics Festival in Portland, Ore. A work of sheer fantasy dreamed up by Tom Neely, Scot Nobles and Gin Stevens of the art collective Igloo Tornado, the comic portrays punk-rock superheroes and pinnacles of masculinity Henry Rollins and Glenn Danzig in a committed and loving relationship.

From the LA Weekly Blog:

Allegedly, when Henry Rollins was shown an earlier version of the minicomic, his reaction was to ask if Glenn had seen it yet. Rollins thought Danzig would have been less than amused.

As LA Weekly's Gustavo Turner also pointed out, the minicomic has "turned an old metalhead parlor game — 'Who would win a fight? Danzig or Rollins?' — into clever slash fiction, a non-explicit graphic novelette."

It does seem that the most logical (albeit extreme) conclusion to any musical super-duo or supergroup fantasy is to just go ahead and imagine them as lovers. After all, sexual preferences aside, many music fans can work themselves into an ecstatic frenzy imagining various sonic combinations and collaborations. ("The National is making an album with Thom Yorke and M.I.A.? OMG!" "Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver are touring together? That is so much sweaty beard — I cannot wait!") Or just listen to my colleague Robin Hilton discuss musician Jason Lytle on any number of our All Songs Considered podcasts to realize how straight men fall in love with other straight men every single day, all under the guise of fandom.

What I appreciate about the idea of Henry and Glenn Forever is that it goes beyond the tired and obvious bromance genre. We all know that bros love their bros. But this time around, Rollins and Danzig are reimagined not just as punk icons, but as gay ones. Yes, it's a funny idea, and it plays into the inherent homoeroticism of early mosh-pit man piles, but it also acknowledges that just as fans are at the mercy of our idols' creative whims, musical heroes and legends are also subject to the imaginations of the listeners.

If you've dreamed up any fantastical musical combinations, romantic or otherwise, please share them in the comments section. But, you know, keep them clean.

It was announced today that Variance Films has acquired the rights to the fantastic documentary Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and the Magnetic Fields. The film will open Wednesday, Oct. 27, at New York's Film Forum, with additional runs across the U.S. and Canada to be announced.

For three years in a row — fourth through sixth grade — I attended Camp Orkila. Located on Orcas Island, the largest of Washington State's San Juan Islands, it was there that I learned to shoot bows and arrows, eat geoduck, make blobs out of clay and call it art, kiss boys behind trees and paddle from island to island until I earned a certificate with the title "Junior Canoeist." Back in the free-for-all that was the Pacific Northwest of the 1980s, we also shot guns at camp. With only our 15- or 16-year-old counselors there for protection and guidance, we lay side by side on old cots and fired guns at targets.

Then there were the camp songs. A lot of the music probably came from a YMCA songbook. Some tunes were spiritual and felt pseudo-religious, like the ones we had to sing before each meal; others were silly or veered towards the dirty before turning out to be G-rated after all. As a preteen, the mere hint of salaciousness was intoxicating; better than outright lewdness.

"Hello, operator, please give me number "9"
And if you disconnect me, I'll kick in your
Behind the refrigerator, there lay a piece of glass,
Ms. Lucy sat upon it and broke her little,
Ask me no more questions..."

We fancied ourselves beastly and wild.

On the last night of camp, there was a dance at the mess hall, where it still reeked of dinners and dish soap. We'd clean ourselves off in the cold showers, try to put on a combination of clothes no one had seen during the week and dance to Depeche Mode and other hits of the day. We were homesick, but sick at the thought of going home. We exchanged phone numbers we'd never dial. And we tried to have one last gasp of fun despite the fact that many of us hadn't gone the bathroom in seven days. (Constipation is summer camp's dirty little secret.)

Much of the music I remember from camp was unofficial: the songs a counselor would play for us on acoustic guitar, or that an older camper would sing after telling us a tale of his hard-knock life. We couldn't get enough of "One Tin Soldier" or "Cat's in the Cradle." These were the real deal: message songs that made us feel deep and worldly. As a result, we sang them constantly, and even more bizarrely, in rounds. Spontaneous and melodramatic versions of either song cropped up on benches, at meals and in our bunks before bed. Someone usually shed a tear. It was gloriously awful.

When I came home from camp, I also had a newfound interest in "The Circle Game," a song my father had on the soundtrack for The Strawberry Statement:

I don't think I still listen to any of the songs I learned at camp, yet I can't seem to forget a single one of them.

Please share any summer-camp or school songs that have left an indelible impression on you.

Earlier this week, NPR's Morning Edition had this interesting tidbit at the tail end of a piece about Manuel Noriega's recent extradition to France on money-laundering charges:

"You know, when Noriega fled U.S. troops back in 1989, the U.S. military tried to blast him out of an embassy in Panama by playing loud music. They included this smash hit by Rick Astley."

Surrender? No way! I just did a little dance around the room. Sure, maybe after 100 more listens I might want to leave the house, but only to purchase the entire Whenever You Need Somebody album on vinyl.

I'm no longer talking about Rick Astley when I say that I'm all for music that contains "dealbreaker" elements. Who wants to be part of something, specifically in the realm of art, that is loved by all? Wherein there isn't even enough merit or risk-taking to warrant a good argument?

To really be tortured by a song, it needs to be more than just something you don't like or don't get; it has to make your skin crawl by getting under it. Strangely, that last clause could describe provocative or daring music, as well. So I think a song that would have me begging for mercy would have to go beyond obnoxious; it would have to lack mystery or an ineffable quality that might intrigue me, even on a cerebral level.

Furthermore, the most agonizing songs tend to be catchy and cloying — so much so that they flip the world on its head and you swallow their sickness like it's a remedy. Yes, they truly are that bad. We're talking about torture tactics here, not pet peeves.

Here, then, are three songs that would have me raising my flag in surrender if they were blasted at me and played on repeat:

(There are certain friends in whose company I can't even say the word "Damn" without them launching into that Sophie B. Hawkins song.)

What songs could make you flee your house and force your surrender?

Chicago's Blue Ribbon Glee Club has recorded an amazing version of "Waiting Room" by Fugazi. You can watch the video below.

(Thanks Freddie and Lia!)