here, there, everywhere

"Lisa Goodman is a Bitch"

This is a re-post from a Facebook Note that my friend Devon Sykes wrote in September. I wanted to share this with folks who weren’t friends with Dev, but Facebook has rules about that. So enjoy. Or at least take into consideration (Dev can be a smidge crazed sometimes).

NOTE: I should mention that I am not entirely sure if this matter has been resolved or not in the months since September. But it’s still something to know about as far as the local music scene goes.

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On the subject of Leona Lewis' cover of "Run"

Leona Lewis - Run (Snow Patrol cover)

First, listen to the original: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83ITQsLv8Es.

Consider these lines: “Even if you cannot hear my voice/I’ll be right beside you dear” and “to think I might not see those eyes/Makes it so hard not to cry.” It implies that the singer of the song is attempting to be the brave one in this parting of ways, despite the fact that they are just as upset and torn up about it as the person they are trying to comfort.

Listen to the way Gary sings those lines in the original and the way the music changes accordingly. It becomes clear that he’s finding it hard to get these words out because he’s really fucking sad and scared, but god damn, he’s gonna do his best to be brave for them.

When I start listening to Leona’s version, my first impulse is to find the nearest trashcan because I’d rather keep my sick off the bed. Not because it’s a disgusting cover, but more because she gives the song this utterly morose quality that is nausea-inducing. Instead of getting the feeling of bravery, you get a feeling beyond melancholy. It’s the kind of feeling that seizes you and shakes you until you’re wretching your grief and terror all over the place.

This, in and of itself, would be wholly amazing if she was able to convince me that she meant it.

However, …check out 3:24 and onwards. The back-up choir kicks in (which I’m not particularly a fan of, but will admit that it adds a element of grandeur to it). She starts to actually use her voice. It’s like when Mariah sings “Hero” or when Whitney sings “I Will Always Love You.” In no time at all it’s obvious that these women have great voices. But it’s not until Mariah tells you to hold on cos “there will be a tomorrow” and Whitney tells you for the third time that she’s always gonna love you that you realize you are in the presence of true greatness.

The last third of Leona’s version of “Run” does things for the song that Gary Lightbody could never do, but I’m always gonna go for the original on this one because while she may be able to walk the walk, she can’t talk the talk. There are just some songs where I want the whole package.

"We were just watching a western and now we're doing this western shit."

The cigarette hangs from his mouth at a nonchalant, nearly attentive angle, as if he has just enough attention left to divert from the music in order to keep the fag from falling from his lips. Mere moments ago, it was critical that he smoke that cigarette immediately, but something has struck him and the cigarette remains unlit between his lips.

The reason for the abrupt neglect of the cigarette lies in his arms, on his lap. There lies a beautiful contrivance - a golden instrument of salacious strings and tempting melodies. When this guitar found its way into his grasp, it realized that this was a place that instruments belonged, the place where they were created to be.

The muscles in his angular arms twitch and flex to move his strong, wide hands so they traverse the fretboard until the most dulcet noises are coaxed from it. Over and over they stroke this pattern and over and over the same sounds are emitted, yet every time these chords are born anew — as if the bittersweet fibers of this fruit have been stewed in spices until they are chewy and rough. The cigarette has now become too much of an extremity to concentrate on further; it is moved to a stationary resting place behind his ear. His mouth takes on a slightly puckered form that depicts an intense concentration on the sounds coming out of his guitar. For a while he is looking forward, at other players in the room, but in the most unfocused, unattended manner; he is not here and he is not looking at any one of us. Soon his eyes close and a look of peace settles over him. The music flows more easily through the strings and through his fingers, yet he looks as if he could be asleep. Perhaps it is almost better this way; when his eyes are closed, it is easier to resist the heartbreaking combination of his quiet and damaged eyes and the sultry acrid syrup of melodies flowing from his guitar.

It is not long before these sparks are caught by the wind and ignite the others in the room. There is a beautiful girl seated across from him and soon she, too, has picked up one of these golden devices and is playing away the night. Her eyes are backlit from the clarinet lamp behind her, shifting the pigment from a regular blue to a translucent grey. She is looking beyond any objects or immediate planes in the room; her stare, however, is not so unfocused and blank as his. It’s quite peculiar, to be honest. Almost as if she is seeing the music happen a few feet before her — something the rest of us in the room are not gifted enough to see. Her eyes never focus. Every once in a while a smile will bloom on her face, but her eyes will remain fixed on some unseen apparition dancing seductively in front of her.

It does not stop there, oh no. A chair that belongs to a set that does not exist in this time or place is pulled up and a set of bongos and a conga drum are produced out of seemingly nowhere. The drummer jumps in on the conga, giving a steady rhythm to this little ditty being created. He looks up and to the right, as if he is channeling a divine beat into his own glimmering instrument. His whole body moves in his rhythmic endeavors, yet his body moves completely independently of his hands and eyes, which remain in sync with each others and the chords.

It is not long before I think I can see the music in front of me as well…

12:16 AM | 2.23.09

Official Decree of the Hippity-Hoppity

I, BKP, declare that from this moment henceforth, the latest album from the Twin Cities hip-hop group Heiruspecs will be the official after hours music of the Twin Cities.

As you all may or may not know, I seem to find myself out and about at odd hours of the night that usually involve very few digits in their digital representations. Sometimes it’s a quarter of 4 and you’re the only one in downtown Minneapolis on a Monday morning, and sometimes it’s just shortly after midnight and you’re mingling with the last few buses out of the city center in an attempt to get home. Either way…when it’s late and it’s dark — and, at this time of the year, when it’s ass cold — a girl’s gotta have some music to keep herself warm.

I know what you’re thinking: “Why the new Heiruspecs album?” Well, have a seat. Have a seat right here and let me tell you.

There is nothing QUITE like listening to “Without Much Sleep” as you walk through downtown Minneapolis at 4:15 on an chilly January morning when there is quite literally not a single other living being about. The lights of Nicollet Mall twinkled and glistened like sugar crystals on a gingerbread house and the snow that had just started to fall that morning was lining the streets untouched and pristine like frosting on a cake. This is pure magic, I assure you.

Another reason would be that this album literally makes me proud to be from the Twin Cities. Not that I wasn’t before — not by any means cos golly gee I love my cities. It’s just that this album has a heady feeling of being local to it and it makes me sit back and think, “Shit. I am from the same town that this stuff is coming from. I am a local just like these guys are locals.” That’s a very powerful feeling. What’s even better is that it makes me THAT much more excited to leave because it means I will have something amazing to come back home to.

The first time I listened to this album, I experienced the most amazing sensation of the sounds coming in through my ears aligning with the visuals coming through my eyes. I’ll be honest, I was completely unfamiliar with the music — and for the most part, the genre — until very recently. But within the first two full listen-throughs, it became completely obvious that this album is a perfect aural demonstration of 612 meets 651. Having grown up in St. Paul, I feel I am fairly informed enough to say that 651 has always struck me as raw and gritty — where shit is just plain local. Minneap, on the other hand, has a certain air of swank and class to it — however authentic that may or may not be. But these two cities somehow work together to create a crazy atmosphere, if you will, that this new album represents flawlessly. Listen to the instrumentals of this album and tell me that you don’t here the 612 threaded through it. At the same time, listen to the lyrics on any of the songs and try to deny the blatant reality of St. Paul that gushes from the rhymes. So here we are. I have spent a significant amount of time attempting to share with you the epic influence this album has had on my life as of late. Maybe you feel me, maybe you don’t. It doesn’t matter, not in the long run, I suppose. This is about the Heiruspecs album, but it’s also not about the album. It’s about appreciate music that represents something unique to you and where you’re from. It’s about music and identity.

This album is mine, yours, his, hers. You should move with me, move with me.

Peace out.

01/26/09