Its been a while since Joe or I posted anything about music. Its not cuz we arent listening, or havent both been absolutely bowled over by Wovenhand’s most recent record (as well as his entire back catalog) or enjoyed the latest from M. Ward and Beirut, or had Vetiver’s “Tight Knit,” Neko Case’s “Middle Cyclone” and the Great Lake Swimmer’s “Lost Channels” on continual repeat. Cuz we have. But the real record that seems to do it for me – and I think for Joe, too – is Elvis Perkins in Dearland. A few years ago Erin gave me Elvis’ first record, and it stands as a sort of marker for the beginning of our relationship. Therefore, it – and he – has a special place. That special place gets personified in the new record – its big and complicated and wonderful. Its happy and sad, triumphant and tragic, and is soaked with an atmosphere that begins at the first chirp of the recorded Cicadas on track 1 and ebbs and flows until the trundling, rumbling final track that asks “how’s forever been, baby?” Regardless of the question, the feeling, the weather, Perkins’ answer to it all in song is always beautiful.
Joe and I are currently working on collages in hopes that they’ll find their way into making a successful poster for Perkins’ upcoming show at Bottletree in May. They are the hardest posters to make, the ones for bands we admire so greatly, whose music inspires us so much that it becomes hard to articulate a proper response. But what a great gift to have – sounds that are so soundly they turn you mute.
Hear more straight from the source on this NPR INTERVIEW.
ADDENDUM, Sat. Apr 25: “Doomsday,” one of the standout trax from the record, is about 9/11. Its the best 9/11 song I’ve heard, and it should be listened to while reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” The two go together like pb+j on warm bread eaten at a picnic where you sit in an ant bed after the canoe sank and you lost your frisbee. But you still have an ok time because its a beautifully crisp, bright Tuesday in Sept., and no matter what bad stuff happens, you’re alive and living and able to picnic.