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"content": "\u003cp>Tina Dico sings and plays wistful songs on her guitar. She’s very big in her native Denmark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Intrigued? Yeah, neither was I.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But listen to Dico perform her song “Use Me” and see if you feel differently. With a tobaccoey voice and simple but intimate delivery, she draws you in with lyrics that bring a little complexity to otherwise basic emotional pretenses: “Don’t be so hard on yourself/Take it out on someone else/Say my name any way you please/Use me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Use Me” appears on \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b>, which is Dico’s third album but her first U.S. release. If things don’t pan out, she has a backup: She also has a gig with the mellow English electronica band Zero 7. (No, she’s not the one who sings that song from the \u003cb>Garden State\u003c/b> soundtrack. She sang on the tracks “Home” and “The Space Between” on a later album, \u003cb>When It Falls\u003c/b>.) But it’s clear from her music that Dico, who counts Bob Dylan among her influences, is not necessarily interested in becoming the next big thing in electronica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dico is 27, blond and pretty. But unlike many blond pop singers in their 20s, she’s actually relatable. She seems uninterested in pretense, either with her image or her music. For God’s sake, the poor thing looks like she might actually break down crying in the press kit video, as she talks about how lonely it has been moving to London, and then touring around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her melancholy has produced an album full of songs that are reflective and intelligent, with memorable choruses. I have no idea what a head shop is, but after hearing the song of the same title, I keep singing “Meet me at the head shop/Forget yourself and leave it all behind…” Dico says she always composes her songs on the guitar, and that’s clear in every track. Simple instrumentation serves as the backdrop for her stock-in-trade, which is her vocal and songwriting talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dico doesn’t let herself get entirely mired in moodiness. “Give In,” which is more uptempo, sounds even carefree. That song brings out the appeal that’s evident on “Use Me” and elsewhere, as Dico counsels the listener to give in to the confusion and “take what you find, it will be good enough.” Her songs get at the frustration and heartache involved in finding oneself. Everyone, but particularly young women, are going to feel like they found a new friend in Dico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> pairs Dico with producer Chris Potter, who is known for his work with Richard Ashcroft and his band The Verve. Given Ashcroft’s swift fade from U.S. prominence after 1997’s \u003cb>Urban Hymns\u003c/b>, it’s not necessarily a collaboration to highlight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Indeed, a live performance on WXPN’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5348032\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">World Café\u003c/a> brings out Dico’s appeal better than the album does. Dico has a charming ability to toy with the rhythm of her songs in performance and has a knack for improvising without oversinging, but \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> standardizes her sound and ends up making it a little less interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s production offers no surprises and little variation in tone. There is, however, an excess of slowly twanging, echoing guitar accents — it’s as if producer Potter wants to broadcast the mood. But Dico’s songs do quite well enough expressing loneliness and emotional ache on their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though it’s easy to stay steeped in the slinky, yearning mood of \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b>, listeners may be left wondering what more she can do. In the meantime, the album is a good companion for downcast dreaminess. “I need a room with a view… Watch the sky turn from hazy gray to black/Watch my neighbors go to work/And look exhausted and burned out when they get back,” she writes in “Room with a View.” As one of those workaday neighbors, it’s nice to put on \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> and sit on Dico’s side of the window.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Tina Dico sings and plays wistful songs on her guitar. She’s very big in her native Denmark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Intrigued? Yeah, neither was I.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But listen to Dico perform her song “Use Me” and see if you feel differently. With a tobaccoey voice and simple but intimate delivery, she draws you in with lyrics that bring a little complexity to otherwise basic emotional pretenses: “Don’t be so hard on yourself/Take it out on someone else/Say my name any way you please/Use me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Use Me” appears on \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b>, which is Dico’s third album but her first U.S. release. If things don’t pan out, she has a backup: She also has a gig with the mellow English electronica band Zero 7. (No, she’s not the one who sings that song from the \u003cb>Garden State\u003c/b> soundtrack. She sang on the tracks “Home” and “The Space Between” on a later album, \u003cb>When It Falls\u003c/b>.) But it’s clear from her music that Dico, who counts Bob Dylan among her influences, is not necessarily interested in becoming the next big thing in electronica.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dico is 27, blond and pretty. But unlike many blond pop singers in their 20s, she’s actually relatable. She seems uninterested in pretense, either with her image or her music. For God’s sake, the poor thing looks like she might actually break down crying in the press kit video, as she talks about how lonely it has been moving to London, and then touring around the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her melancholy has produced an album full of songs that are reflective and intelligent, with memorable choruses. I have no idea what a head shop is, but after hearing the song of the same title, I keep singing “Meet me at the head shop/Forget yourself and leave it all behind…” Dico says she always composes her songs on the guitar, and that’s clear in every track. Simple instrumentation serves as the backdrop for her stock-in-trade, which is her vocal and songwriting talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dico doesn’t let herself get entirely mired in moodiness. “Give In,” which is more uptempo, sounds even carefree. That song brings out the appeal that’s evident on “Use Me” and elsewhere, as Dico counsels the listener to give in to the confusion and “take what you find, it will be good enough.” Her songs get at the frustration and heartache involved in finding oneself. Everyone, but particularly young women, are going to feel like they found a new friend in Dico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> pairs Dico with producer Chris Potter, who is known for his work with Richard Ashcroft and his band The Verve. Given Ashcroft’s swift fade from U.S. prominence after 1997’s \u003cb>Urban Hymns\u003c/b>, it’s not necessarily a collaboration to highlight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Indeed, a live performance on WXPN’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5348032\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">World Café\u003c/a> brings out Dico’s appeal better than the album does. Dico has a charming ability to toy with the rhythm of her songs in performance and has a knack for improvising without oversinging, but \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> standardizes her sound and ends up making it a little less interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s production offers no surprises and little variation in tone. There is, however, an excess of slowly twanging, echoing guitar accents — it’s as if producer Potter wants to broadcast the mood. But Dico’s songs do quite well enough expressing loneliness and emotional ache on their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though it’s easy to stay steeped in the slinky, yearning mood of \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b>, listeners may be left wondering what more she can do. In the meantime, the album is a good companion for downcast dreaminess. “I need a room with a view… Watch the sky turn from hazy gray to black/Watch my neighbors go to work/And look exhausted and burned out when they get back,” she writes in “Room with a View.” As one of those workaday neighbors, it’s nice to put on \u003cb>In the Red\u003c/b> and sit on Dico’s side of the window.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Flaming Lips: At War with the Mystics",
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"content": "\u003cp>Delving into a new Flaming Lips album is like plunging your fork into one of those cakes with a zillion layers. First song: “Mmm, chocolate.” Second song: “Ooh, custard!” Third song: “Wha? Raspberry? Wow.” Third song: “Huh, a layer of hazelnuts. Crunchy.” Fifth song: “Aaah, buttercream. ” Sixth song: “Cake!” And so on. And when you’re done, you immediately want to stuff your face cause it’s so damn good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You (or at least I) gotta hand it to the Flaming Lips. Who woulda thought they would last this long, keep progressing by such leaps and bounds with every album, and eventually become the elder statesmen of American psychedelia? And who would have thought Warner Brothers Records would keep supporting this nonsense? What’s so great about the Lips is that they just do it their own damn way, and they’re having so much fun doing it. That is probably what sets them apart, what keeps them going, and what keeps everyone interested and coming back for more. They have spawned many imitators and admirers (Mercury Rev – ok, to be fair they do contain a former member, Grandaddy, Sparklehorse, Polyphonic Spree) but no other band can come close to reaching the heights of joy and reckless abandon that the Flaming Lips achieve so effortlessly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With \u003cb>At War with the Mystics\u003c/b>, bandleader Wayne Coyne, producer Dave Fridmann and company reach deeper into their bag of sonic treats, with some crazy ridiculous studio trickery that begs and pleads to be listened to on big fat headphones. They’ve always played around with the sonic landscape, starting with their boom-box and drive-in theater performances where they would instruct the audience to turn a hundred boom-boxes or car stereos on at instructed intervals to create a dissonant, beautiful reverberation of music and sound. Their album \u003cb>Zaireeka\u003c/b> took this concept to the extreme – a 4-CD set designed to be played on four CD players at once – a truly quadraphonic experience that was, although work-intensive and a little hard to pull off in a small apartment, truly mind-blowing and fabulous. My husband, Danny and I were able to orchestrate a \u003cb>Zaireeka\u003c/b> session in the Main Gallery at Cal Arts, a gigantic, cavernous space, with a bunch of teenagers manning the boom-boxes. Talk about low-tech, high-con. Take that, John Cage!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All aural experimentia aside, at the core of \u003cb>Mystics\u003c/b>, like all Flaming Lips albums, are well-written pop songs. While so many bands attempt the irreverence and psychedelic cheekiness of the Lips, they don’t have the heart or the chops to give it substance. Wayne Coyne has become a great songwriter, and the strains of Pink Floyd, the Beatles, Queen and even Prince can be heard wafting throughout the tracks, like multi-colored ribbons from a pop music maypole. They’re even getting a little funky slow jam on a couple of songs. Take that, Justin Timberlake!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not only is the album deliciously deep and deliriously trippy, but the Flaming Lips have finally let something penetrate their happy little bubble and are now writing political lyrics. But don’t worry, it’s all naively couched in Wayne’s sweet, sing-songy voice and covered with synths and strings and weird vocal effects. Not even the Flaming Lips can ignore the ravages and atrocities of the Bush administration, and I’d certainly rather hear it from them than get one more pumped-up petition request from Move On.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a final note for the ladies, I don’t know if you’ve seen any of the recent rounds of publicity photos for this album, but Wayne Coyne is looking incredibly fine. He is one of those rock n’ roll guys that keeps improving with age, like Nick Cave, and looks super tasty in his three-piece suit and salt and pepper hair. Word up girls, he’s married. Word out — they’re going to be at the Greek Theatre this summer with Ween. Since their Noise Pop show sold out in four minutes, you better grab those tickets now. And get ready to have your mind blown.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Delving into a new Flaming Lips album is like plunging your fork into one of those cakes with a zillion layers. First song: \"Mmm, chocolate.\" Second song: \"Ooh, custard!\" Third song: \"Wha? Raspberry? Wow.\" Third song: \"Huh, a layer of hazelnuts. Crunchy.\" Fifth song: \"Aaah, buttercream. \" Sixth song: \"Cake!\" And so on. And when you're done, you immediately want to stuff your face cause it's so damn good.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Delving into a new Flaming Lips album is like plunging your fork into one of those cakes with a zillion layers. First song: “Mmm, chocolate.” Second song: “Ooh, custard!” Third song: “Wha? Raspberry? Wow.” Third song: “Huh, a layer of hazelnuts. Crunchy.” Fifth song: “Aaah, buttercream. ” Sixth song: “Cake!” And so on. And when you’re done, you immediately want to stuff your face cause it’s so damn good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You (or at least I) gotta hand it to the Flaming Lips. Who woulda thought they would last this long, keep progressing by such leaps and bounds with every album, and eventually become the elder statesmen of American psychedelia? And who would have thought Warner Brothers Records would keep supporting this nonsense? What’s so great about the Lips is that they just do it their own damn way, and they’re having so much fun doing it. That is probably what sets them apart, what keeps them going, and what keeps everyone interested and coming back for more. They have spawned many imitators and admirers (Mercury Rev – ok, to be fair they do contain a former member, Grandaddy, Sparklehorse, Polyphonic Spree) but no other band can come close to reaching the heights of joy and reckless abandon that the Flaming Lips achieve so effortlessly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With \u003cb>At War with the Mystics\u003c/b>, bandleader Wayne Coyne, producer Dave Fridmann and company reach deeper into their bag of sonic treats, with some crazy ridiculous studio trickery that begs and pleads to be listened to on big fat headphones. They’ve always played around with the sonic landscape, starting with their boom-box and drive-in theater performances where they would instruct the audience to turn a hundred boom-boxes or car stereos on at instructed intervals to create a dissonant, beautiful reverberation of music and sound. Their album \u003cb>Zaireeka\u003c/b> took this concept to the extreme – a 4-CD set designed to be played on four CD players at once – a truly quadraphonic experience that was, although work-intensive and a little hard to pull off in a small apartment, truly mind-blowing and fabulous. My husband, Danny and I were able to orchestrate a \u003cb>Zaireeka\u003c/b> session in the Main Gallery at Cal Arts, a gigantic, cavernous space, with a bunch of teenagers manning the boom-boxes. Talk about low-tech, high-con. Take that, John Cage!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All aural experimentia aside, at the core of \u003cb>Mystics\u003c/b>, like all Flaming Lips albums, are well-written pop songs. While so many bands attempt the irreverence and psychedelic cheekiness of the Lips, they don’t have the heart or the chops to give it substance. Wayne Coyne has become a great songwriter, and the strains of Pink Floyd, the Beatles, Queen and even Prince can be heard wafting throughout the tracks, like multi-colored ribbons from a pop music maypole. They’re even getting a little funky slow jam on a couple of songs. Take that, Justin Timberlake!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not only is the album deliciously deep and deliriously trippy, but the Flaming Lips have finally let something penetrate their happy little bubble and are now writing political lyrics. But don’t worry, it’s all naively couched in Wayne’s sweet, sing-songy voice and covered with synths and strings and weird vocal effects. Not even the Flaming Lips can ignore the ravages and atrocities of the Bush administration, and I’d certainly rather hear it from them than get one more pumped-up petition request from Move On.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a final note for the ladies, I don’t know if you’ve seen any of the recent rounds of publicity photos for this album, but Wayne Coyne is looking incredibly fine. He is one of those rock n’ roll guys that keeps improving with age, like Nick Cave, and looks super tasty in his three-piece suit and salt and pepper hair. Word up girls, he’s married. Word out — they’re going to be at the Greek Theatre this summer with Ween. Since their Noise Pop show sold out in four minutes, you better grab those tickets now. And get ready to have your mind blown.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>This past Saturday, Danny and I had a night out without the little one. We downed a quick bloody mary at the Elite Cafe, then went to a movie at the Clay (\u003cb>Tristram Shandy\u003c/b> — capsule review: If you are a rabid Steve Coogan/Alan Partridge fan like we are, you would expect more laughs. If you have no idea who he is, you’ll spend the whole movie wondering why everyone is making such a big deal about him.) After the movie, we wandered around Fillmore Street trying to find a place to eat dinner. We were willing to plunk down some cash at one of the yuppie eateries on that stretch, but every single snooty place we checked out had at least an hour wait and was filled with the most unpleasant looking rich white people we had ever seen. Yuck. We didn’t want sushi, didn’t want Mifune noodles at Japantown because we always go there. We wanted something different, something decent, something that would rock our world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were reaching that awful moment in all long-term relationships where you are standing on a cold windy street, the disappointment and indecision palpable, and you’re asking each other “Well, what do you want to do?” “I don’t know, you decide.” Ugh, if you’ve ever been there, you know how that one moment can open a dark, yawning chasm from which it is very hard to crawl back out. The whole evening can be ruined by that moment, and perhaps the whole weekend, or in some extreme cases, the whole relationship!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally, my genius husband (I can safely say that, ’cause he is) remembered that \u003cb>Powell’s Place\u003c/b>, the soul food restaurant, had recently relocated to the Fillmore District from Hayes Valley. We made a quick cell phone call to find out where they were. Alas, they were at Eddy and Fillmore, just a few blocks, but several worlds, away. All of a sudden, the cold windy night became full of possibility, the walk was joyous, the relationship was saved!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we walked into the new and improved \u003cb>Powell’s\u003c/b>, and the slow-moving old host showed us to our table, we were immediately overtaken by — live gospel singing! Right there in front of us was a young man in an impeccable suit, looking a little like Jamie Foxx, singing gospel songs karaoke-style through a booming sound system. Hallelujah! We looked at each other: We have reached the promised land!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The place was bustling with people of all races and fashion statements. To our left and behind us were well-dressed older African American ladies in their fabulous feathered hats, the gentlemen in suits, with impeccable table manners and gracious bearing. There was a table of dudes who looked like they just came from the Eagle, and a mom and her uncomfortable looking teen daughter singing along to every song. There was a big party of white and Asian folks with lots of babies and kids, and a white family with two scraggly looking punk teens. It was awesome. And through it all, this young man gently preached and sang lovely gospel tunes and light R&B. And Mr. Powell, with his James Brown pompadour slash 70s shag hairdo, gold chains, and warm smile, would just work the room, making sure everyone was happy, introducing the music, and just filling the place with his charm and personality. And the food…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Being a Louisiana girl by way of my dad’s upbringing, I definitely have a sweet spot for soul food, and \u003cb>Powell’s\u003c/b> delivers the goods. The fried chicken is crunchy on the outside, steaming and juicy on the inside. I had the beef brisket, drenched it in BBQ sauce, with some spicy sauteed greens and red beans on the side. The ladies next to me were tucking into some pork ribs that looked divine. The waiter then plunked down a plate of corn muffins, fresh from the oven, still steaming. Praise be. And like all good soul food restaurants, they’ll make you an iced tea/lemonade combo that is out of this world, and cools the fire in your mouth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we were done, we kicked back and enjoyed the tunes. We really wanted the banana pie for dessert, but when we asked, they had just run out. We were bummed. But then, when the waiter brought our check, he informed us that a batch of banana pies had just come out of the oven, and we got one to take home. And boy, when we ate that pie later, while partaking in some substances that, well, make pie taste really good, we were ready to convert to whatever religion could make such a glorious pie. Thank you, Lord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Powell’s Place\u003c/b> is located at 1521 Eddy Street at Fillmore. 415-409-1388. Saturday night features live gospel music.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>This past Saturday, Danny and I had a night out without the little one. We downed a quick bloody mary at the Elite Cafe, then went to a movie at the Clay (\u003cb>Tristram Shandy\u003c/b> — capsule review: If you are a rabid Steve Coogan/Alan Partridge fan like we are, you would expect more laughs. If you have no idea who he is, you’ll spend the whole movie wondering why everyone is making such a big deal about him.) After the movie, we wandered around Fillmore Street trying to find a place to eat dinner. We were willing to plunk down some cash at one of the yuppie eateries on that stretch, but every single snooty place we checked out had at least an hour wait and was filled with the most unpleasant looking rich white people we had ever seen. Yuck. We didn’t want sushi, didn’t want Mifune noodles at Japantown because we always go there. We wanted something different, something decent, something that would rock our world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were reaching that awful moment in all long-term relationships where you are standing on a cold windy street, the disappointment and indecision palpable, and you’re asking each other “Well, what do you want to do?” “I don’t know, you decide.” Ugh, if you’ve ever been there, you know how that one moment can open a dark, yawning chasm from which it is very hard to crawl back out. The whole evening can be ruined by that moment, and perhaps the whole weekend, or in some extreme cases, the whole relationship!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Finally, my genius husband (I can safely say that, ’cause he is) remembered that \u003cb>Powell’s Place\u003c/b>, the soul food restaurant, had recently relocated to the Fillmore District from Hayes Valley. We made a quick cell phone call to find out where they were. Alas, they were at Eddy and Fillmore, just a few blocks, but several worlds, away. All of a sudden, the cold windy night became full of possibility, the walk was joyous, the relationship was saved!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we walked into the new and improved \u003cb>Powell’s\u003c/b>, and the slow-moving old host showed us to our table, we were immediately overtaken by — live gospel singing! Right there in front of us was a young man in an impeccable suit, looking a little like Jamie Foxx, singing gospel songs karaoke-style through a booming sound system. Hallelujah! We looked at each other: We have reached the promised land!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The place was bustling with people of all races and fashion statements. To our left and behind us were well-dressed older African American ladies in their fabulous feathered hats, the gentlemen in suits, with impeccable table manners and gracious bearing. There was a table of dudes who looked like they just came from the Eagle, and a mom and her uncomfortable looking teen daughter singing along to every song. There was a big party of white and Asian folks with lots of babies and kids, and a white family with two scraggly looking punk teens. It was awesome. And through it all, this young man gently preached and sang lovely gospel tunes and light R&B. And Mr. Powell, with his James Brown pompadour slash 70s shag hairdo, gold chains, and warm smile, would just work the room, making sure everyone was happy, introducing the music, and just filling the place with his charm and personality. And the food…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Being a Louisiana girl by way of my dad’s upbringing, I definitely have a sweet spot for soul food, and \u003cb>Powell’s\u003c/b> delivers the goods. The fried chicken is crunchy on the outside, steaming and juicy on the inside. I had the beef brisket, drenched it in BBQ sauce, with some spicy sauteed greens and red beans on the side. The ladies next to me were tucking into some pork ribs that looked divine. The waiter then plunked down a plate of corn muffins, fresh from the oven, still steaming. Praise be. And like all good soul food restaurants, they’ll make you an iced tea/lemonade combo that is out of this world, and cools the fire in your mouth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When we were done, we kicked back and enjoyed the tunes. We really wanted the banana pie for dessert, but when we asked, they had just run out. We were bummed. But then, when the waiter brought our check, he informed us that a batch of banana pies had just come out of the oven, and we got one to take home. And boy, when we ate that pie later, while partaking in some substances that, well, make pie taste really good, we were ready to convert to whatever religion could make such a glorious pie. Thank you, Lord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Powell’s Place\u003c/b> is located at 1521 Eddy Street at Fillmore. 415-409-1388. Saturday night features live gospel music.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>At first, it didn’t bode well for Martha Wainwright, in my book. The opening song on her eponymous album begins with a wistful “Far away…” sung in a high, almost chipmunk voice. I have to admit that I am not fond of waif girl singers. I tend to favor the stronger, deeper tones of Siouxsie Sioux and Marianne Faithful, and more recently Fiona Apple (on \u003cb>Extraordinary Machine\u003c/b>, at least). The airy pop of “Far Away” reminded me of the legions of frilly dreamers who followed in Kate Bush’s wake. Not that there’s anything wrong with Kate, at least in her early-mid period. In her younger years, Bush was able to turn her ballerina eccentricities into vivid, almost cinematic experiences, and the rougher, more experimental work on \u003cb>The Dreaming\u003c/b> and \u003cb>Hounds of Love\u003c/b> pushed the boundaries of pop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Far Away” is a decent enough song, but it isn’t till mid-way through the second track, “GPT,” when at the end of the phrase, “I’ve laid my claim, I thought for sure that I’d be yours. Oh, but your friend is much more, but he’s got a date and she’s got a name,” Wainwright yells, “I don’t care!” and there is the hint that not only is her high voice muscular, but she’s willing to push out whatever she’s feeling, to stretch, to curse and to surrender. She’s a wrong-doer and luckily she’s willing to share her own bad impulses with us on tune after tune. Then the record begins to swirl, to embed itself into the brain. The songs are coiled, they spiral suddenly out, throwing everything on the table, at the same time honest, dirty, angry, cynical, and ironic. She plays the coquette, but one that is totally wrecked, her tinkling piano conjuring images of a brothel’s back rooms at the end of a particularly long shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wainwright’s imagery is packed with gritty observations and conflicting impulses. On “Factory:”\u003cbr>\n“There are others I have known as poor souls, sores exposed,\u003cbr>\nthe run-of-the-mill, the destitute, and the cold,\u003cbr>\nsores exposed to the blisters and shards\u003cbr>\nwhere any kind of kindness is as far as the sun, the sun\u003cbr>\nThe sun, the sun, run, run, run, run.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are equal parts wistful pop and modern folk (given her roots as the daughter of a McGarrigle and a Wainwright, I suppose that is inevitable), but she is at her best when she is cutting loose — not unlike PJ Harvey — on the rougher, more rollicking tunes like “Ball and Chain,” where she is angry and seemingly amused by her own capacity for anger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Yeah, her tits were higher than mine\u003cbr>\nWith a waist that is sugar-fine\u003cbr>\nI heard she could read and write too\u003cbr>\nAnd she’s getting a degree in Fucking U\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sexual Psychology\u003cbr>\nIt’s easier than philosophy\u003cbr>\nIt’s easier than chemistry\u003cbr>\nWhere’s my chemisty?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Why does this always happen?\u003cbr>\nOh why does this always happen?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The answer to that last question seems obvious. If Martha’s going to continue to get herself into trouble, double-crossed by her own bad behavior and scoundrel lovers, she’s got something to do with the resulting emotions, roll them up into lovely, snarling tunes and unleash them on the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.marthawainwright.com/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Visit Martha Wainwright’s web site\u003c/a> (at marthawainwright.com).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>At first, it didn’t bode well for Martha Wainwright, in my book. The opening song on her eponymous album begins with a wistful “Far away…” sung in a high, almost chipmunk voice. I have to admit that I am not fond of waif girl singers. I tend to favor the stronger, deeper tones of Siouxsie Sioux and Marianne Faithful, and more recently Fiona Apple (on \u003cb>Extraordinary Machine\u003c/b>, at least). The airy pop of “Far Away” reminded me of the legions of frilly dreamers who followed in Kate Bush’s wake. Not that there’s anything wrong with Kate, at least in her early-mid period. In her younger years, Bush was able to turn her ballerina eccentricities into vivid, almost cinematic experiences, and the rougher, more experimental work on \u003cb>The Dreaming\u003c/b> and \u003cb>Hounds of Love\u003c/b> pushed the boundaries of pop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Far Away” is a decent enough song, but it isn’t till mid-way through the second track, “GPT,” when at the end of the phrase, “I’ve laid my claim, I thought for sure that I’d be yours. Oh, but your friend is much more, but he’s got a date and she’s got a name,” Wainwright yells, “I don’t care!” and there is the hint that not only is her high voice muscular, but she’s willing to push out whatever she’s feeling, to stretch, to curse and to surrender. She’s a wrong-doer and luckily she’s willing to share her own bad impulses with us on tune after tune. Then the record begins to swirl, to embed itself into the brain. The songs are coiled, they spiral suddenly out, throwing everything on the table, at the same time honest, dirty, angry, cynical, and ironic. She plays the coquette, but one that is totally wrecked, her tinkling piano conjuring images of a brothel’s back rooms at the end of a particularly long shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wainwright’s imagery is packed with gritty observations and conflicting impulses. On “Factory:”\u003cbr>\n“There are others I have known as poor souls, sores exposed,\u003cbr>\nthe run-of-the-mill, the destitute, and the cold,\u003cbr>\nsores exposed to the blisters and shards\u003cbr>\nwhere any kind of kindness is as far as the sun, the sun\u003cbr>\nThe sun, the sun, run, run, run, run.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are equal parts wistful pop and modern folk (given her roots as the daughter of a McGarrigle and a Wainwright, I suppose that is inevitable), but she is at her best when she is cutting loose — not unlike PJ Harvey — on the rougher, more rollicking tunes like “Ball and Chain,” where she is angry and seemingly amused by her own capacity for anger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Yeah, her tits were higher than mine\u003cbr>\nWith a waist that is sugar-fine\u003cbr>\nI heard she could read and write too\u003cbr>\nAnd she’s getting a degree in Fucking U\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sexual Psychology\u003cbr>\nIt’s easier than philosophy\u003cbr>\nIt’s easier than chemistry\u003cbr>\nWhere’s my chemisty?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Why does this always happen?\u003cbr>\nOh why does this always happen?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The answer to that last question seems obvious. If Martha’s going to continue to get herself into trouble, double-crossed by her own bad behavior and scoundrel lovers, she’s got something to do with the resulting emotions, roll them up into lovely, snarling tunes and unleash them on the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.marthawainwright.com/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Visit Martha Wainwright’s web site\u003c/a> (at marthawainwright.com).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The release of a new Belle and Sebastian album is always a joyous occasion. But how could they have known that this one, \u003cb>The Life Pursuit\u003c/b>, could wind up coming out during the most blissed-out sunny week in February that San Francisco has ever seen? After months of rain, this past week has been glorious. Warm, fresh, glowing — it seems that in the course of one week the days have grown longer, the grass has grown greener, and the sun has shone brighter. Could it be due to the party record of the year? You decide!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Belle and Sebastian fans are easy to pick out — we tend to be romantics, book readers, watchers of old movies, lovers of nostalgia. Their albums usually start with a whispered vocal from Stuart Murdoch, and usually build to a… conversation. Their last album, \u003cb>Dear Catastrophe Waitress\u003c/b>, definitely kicked it up a notch. But now on \u003cb>The Life Pursuit\u003c/b> he’s practically shouting with glee. B & S fans better pick it up, because our favorite band of wispy moody popsters are demanding that we get up and shake our booties. Gosh, if this white vinyl belt weren’t so tight and this mod haircut weren’t so perfectly coiffed I might jus…wait…oh yeah! I can shake it with the Scots!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve been listening to this album nonstop all weekend, and everyone in my family has a favorite song. My son’s favorite is “Another Sunny Day,” which he demands to hear on endless repeat. It could be for the simple reason that it mentions a train set, but methinks it’s more the lilting, jangling melody that appeals to him. My favorite is “To be Myself Completely,” which is by…the other guy, Stevie. And I swear, it’s not just because it’s by the other guy. This song haunts me, I cannot get it out of my mind. It is so fabulous, with a rhythmic interplay between the piano, guitar and drums that just fills me with glee. Somewhere between Dexy’s Midnight Runners and early Beatles. And that string solo — delicious. An instant classic. Danny, my husband, gets his groove on to “White Collar Boy,” with its Sweet-like stomp. In fact, all the old British 70s glitter hitmakers make an appearance throughout this album, including echoes of Queen, Roxy Music, Bowie, and the aforementioned Sweet. And wait til you hit the Sly and the Family Stone-inspired number “Song for Sunshine.” Brothers and Sisters, we’re gonna have to peel you off the ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I splurged for the deluxe version of this album, and it was well worth it. For just a couple bucks more, you get a fancy hardcover book full of adorable (and inspiring) questions & answers between fans and the band, plus a bonus live DVD. As usual, the black and white photo art and design are top notch. So thanks to Belle and Sebastian for making \u003cb>The Life Pursuit\u003c/b>, and clearing the way for more sunny days to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Okay, so I was going to write about the packed Vetiver show at the Twelve Galaxies and about the Persephone’s Bees show at Cafe Du Nord and write an article about two San Francisco bands on the verge of making it big. Which really just means making it indy big, so that the rest of the country can actually hear what’s going on in San Francisco. But in the grand tradition of being an independent filmmaker, I owed my cinematographer lots of favors and he needed a hand shooting a music video tonight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I found myself in a cold, beer soaked studio waiting for the band to show up and dreading the prospect of shooting. I ended up being a kind of production lackey, the job everyone hopes that they have moved beyond. Just the notion of having to shoot on the street without any sort of crew sounded like a nightmare. I was tired and cranky and quite frankly, it was the last place I wanted to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then I met this sweet duo, \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b>. When the band showed up there was the usual unplanned costume dilemma. What is the band going to wear? Nobody seemed into the prospect of shooting, not even the band. But I didn’t owe them a favor, I owed it to the cinematographer and he seemed excited and ready to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This story could get really ugly, if it weren’t for the transformative power of making music and art. We strolled to the Victoria Theater to catch some light from the marquee and immediately the magic happened. The sound of their beautiful voices coming together and the act of shooting completely transformed the situation. Music is such a powerful and amazing art form. It draws on our memories and emotions in a way few mediums are able to. It takes moments in our life and imprints them in our brains. Music is akin to our sense of smell: it’s emotional and taps into something deeper and more profound than the logic brain. I sat in the freezing cold, just me and the cameraman and two pretty voices, accompanied by a violin and a guitar playing in harmony. And for a short time I wasn’t standing on piss-soaked 16th street, but was transported into the world of the song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I sat there playing the boom box and wielding the single light I was in charge of, I realized that alchemy happens at this low level of filmmaking. Limitations allow you to move freely and invite synchronicity to unfold. Since I am such a control freak about shooting and a slave to pre-production, this experience was liberating. After \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> played in front of the Roxie, we all walked down Valencia Street and ended up at Radio Habana, a tiny restaurant where the walls are lined with an abundance of photos, ephemera, and art junk from around the world. The restaurant’s intimate feel and aesthetic was the perfect accompaniment to the band’s music. \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> played a short and inspired set, while the cameraman took shots from various angles. Even the saucy server fell in love with their sound and tipped them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their music is lilting and lyrical and plucky and bittersweet. The intersection of their intertwining voices and instruments has a powerful emotional impact. It really is a bit heartbreaking to hear. There was something so pure and sweet about them just playing music for a bunch of strangers, without publicists or write ups and all the baggage that comes with making it making art these days. It was improvisational and fun, the way art and music should be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Radio Habana has the tastiest Sangria in town. \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> have an album out and a music video in post-production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/ramonjessica\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Visit Ramon and Jessica\u003c/a> (at\u003cbr>\ncdbaby.com).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Okay, so I was going to write about the packed Vetiver show at the Twelve Galaxies and about the Persephone’s Bees show at Cafe Du Nord and write an article about two San Francisco bands on the verge of making it big. Which really just means making it indy big, so that the rest of the country can actually hear what’s going on in San Francisco. But in the grand tradition of being an independent filmmaker, I owed my cinematographer lots of favors and he needed a hand shooting a music video tonight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I found myself in a cold, beer soaked studio waiting for the band to show up and dreading the prospect of shooting. I ended up being a kind of production lackey, the job everyone hopes that they have moved beyond. Just the notion of having to shoot on the street without any sort of crew sounded like a nightmare. I was tired and cranky and quite frankly, it was the last place I wanted to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then I met this sweet duo, \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b>. When the band showed up there was the usual unplanned costume dilemma. What is the band going to wear? Nobody seemed into the prospect of shooting, not even the band. But I didn’t owe them a favor, I owed it to the cinematographer and he seemed excited and ready to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This story could get really ugly, if it weren’t for the transformative power of making music and art. We strolled to the Victoria Theater to catch some light from the marquee and immediately the magic happened. The sound of their beautiful voices coming together and the act of shooting completely transformed the situation. Music is such a powerful and amazing art form. It draws on our memories and emotions in a way few mediums are able to. It takes moments in our life and imprints them in our brains. Music is akin to our sense of smell: it’s emotional and taps into something deeper and more profound than the logic brain. I sat in the freezing cold, just me and the cameraman and two pretty voices, accompanied by a violin and a guitar playing in harmony. And for a short time I wasn’t standing on piss-soaked 16th street, but was transported into the world of the song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I sat there playing the boom box and wielding the single light I was in charge of, I realized that alchemy happens at this low level of filmmaking. Limitations allow you to move freely and invite synchronicity to unfold. Since I am such a control freak about shooting and a slave to pre-production, this experience was liberating. After \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> played in front of the Roxie, we all walked down Valencia Street and ended up at Radio Habana, a tiny restaurant where the walls are lined with an abundance of photos, ephemera, and art junk from around the world. The restaurant’s intimate feel and aesthetic was the perfect accompaniment to the band’s music. \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> played a short and inspired set, while the cameraman took shots from various angles. Even the saucy server fell in love with their sound and tipped them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their music is lilting and lyrical and plucky and bittersweet. The intersection of their intertwining voices and instruments has a powerful emotional impact. It really is a bit heartbreaking to hear. There was something so pure and sweet about them just playing music for a bunch of strangers, without publicists or write ups and all the baggage that comes with making it making art these days. It was improvisational and fun, the way art and music should be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Radio Habana has the tastiest Sangria in town. \u003cb>Ramon and Jessica\u003c/b> have an album out and a music video in post-production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/ramonjessica\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Visit Ramon and Jessica\u003c/a> (at\u003cbr>\ncdbaby.com).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Andrew Bird: The Mysterious Production of Eggs",
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"content": "\u003cp>One day recently I was driving around listening to NPR. (KQED to be exact!) I don’t know when that started for me, listening to NPR in my car instead of music, but at some point I got hip to the hypnotic, comforting sound of smart people telling me what was going on in the world. Since I don’t watch the news, and pretty much just read the entertainment section of the newspaper, NPR has filled a void in my knowledge of current events in a most non-threatening way. I also dig Terry Gross so much that if I miss a show, I listen to it online while I’m working. Terry rules. I know, I’m getting old. But that’s cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So one day I was cruising along, listening to Talk of the Nation and feeling so very intellectual and liberal in my friggin’ Subaru, and I heard this sort of plucky middle-eastern sounding music, very spare, and a resonant, whispery, soulful male voice singing in English over it. I was floored, and waited until it was back-announced. (\u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5016744\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Andrew Bird on Talk of the Nation\u003c/a>) As you may recall from my \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/arts/2005/12/music-review-tiny-cities.html\">Sun Kil Moon review\u003c/a>, this same thing happened to me with Mark Kozelek! Why is it that when I discover new music while driving in the car, rather than from a friend or reading a review, it is so much more meaningful? Perhaps the solitary nature of driving and the intimacy of public or college radio brings it home in a more special way. It feels like my own personal discovery. So it turned out to be Andrew Bird, who I have been hearing about for a few years. I’ve seen his name in club listings, and a couple of friends in far-flung places had mentioned really liking him, but I just never felt the need to investigate further. I can’t believe that none of these friends grabbed me and shouted in my face, “Alison, this is the man for you!!” Because hot damn, he is. Just go to \u003ca href=\"http://www.andrewbird.net/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">AndrewBird.net\u003c/a> and see for yourself. Ooh-la-la!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All I know about Andrew Bird is that he’s from Chicago, and I think he used to play violin in the Squirrel Nut Zippers. And he’s on Ani Di Franco’s label, Righteous Babe. I know — red flags! Red Flags! Swing band! Ani! Ugh! But please, don’t let that stop you from continuing to read this review, I promise there is nothing Swing or righteous babe-ist within a 500-mile radius of this album. The album, which for the sake of space I shall refer to as \u003cb>MPE\u003c/b>, is a textured, layered, moody masterpiece. I would say without reservation that this would be my pick for album of the year 2005.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The foundation, like with any great solo artist, is Bird’s marvelously expressive sexy voice, and his witty, funny, surreal, literate lyrics. But add to that some of the most unique and beautiful instrumental arrangements this side of Tom Waits, Brian Eno or Joe Henry, and throw in Bird’s fantastically bizarre violin-playing and whistling, and you’ve got yourself quite an indescribable album. I’ve had some trouble telling people about it because it is so unique, but as soon as they hear it they are smitten and sold. There is a charming spaciness and worldliness to it all that is hard to pinpoint, and Bird’s musicianship and arrangement skills just take it to another stratosphere where most singer-songwriters could not even breathe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shall I just give you some lyrics from “Opposite Day?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I got home this morning with the sun right in my eyes\u003cbr>\nThere was no warning as it took me by surprise\u003cbr>\nHit me like an act of god causing my alarm\u003cbr>\nThat I’d not become a cephalopod\u003cbr>\nI still had legs and arms\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And today was s’posed to be the day\u003cbr>\nMolecules decided to change their form\u003cbr>\nThe laws of physics lose their sway\u003cbr>\nYouthful indiscretion is suddenly the norm\u003cbr>\nWith the good kids sprouting horns\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bird drops the science in almost every song. Things change shape, fly around, and are numbered, considered, and cherished. He’s a nerd blessed with superb taste and worldly music knowledge. The album swirls and builds with highs and lows, quiets and louds, that culminate in the majestic “The Naming of Things” and its soaring, belted chorus and moaning strings. If the musical package were not revelatory enough, the artwork is colorfully, painstakingly drawn by artist Jay Ryan. Each song boasts a little panel illustrating the lyrics, printed on lovely matte paper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If all were right with the world, Andrew Bird would be sitting on top of it, whistling, singing, and plucking, with a twinkle in his eye. Or as he predicts in “Tables and Chairs”:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There will be tables and chairs\u003cbr>\nPony rides and dancing bears\u003cbr>\nThere’ll even be a band\u003cbr>\nCause listen after the fall there’ll be no more countries\u003cbr>\nNo currencies at all\u003cbr>\nWe’re gonna live on our wits\u003cbr>\nThrow away survival kits\u003cbr>\nTrade butterfly knives for adderal\u003cbr>\nAnd that’s not all\u003cbr>\nThere will be snacks, there will\u003cbr>\nThere will be snacks!!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Purchase \u003ca href=\"http://www.andrewbird.net/eggs.htm\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Andrew Bird – The Mysterious Production of Eggs\u003c/a> (at andrewbird.net).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>One day recently I was driving around listening to NPR. (KQED to be exact!) I don’t know when that started for me, listening to NPR in my car instead of music, but at some point I got hip to the hypnotic, comforting sound of smart people telling me what was going on in the world. Since I don’t watch the news, and pretty much just read the entertainment section of the newspaper, NPR has filled a void in my knowledge of current events in a most non-threatening way. I also dig Terry Gross so much that if I miss a show, I listen to it online while I’m working. Terry rules. I know, I’m getting old. But that’s cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So one day I was cruising along, listening to Talk of the Nation and feeling so very intellectual and liberal in my friggin’ Subaru, and I heard this sort of plucky middle-eastern sounding music, very spare, and a resonant, whispery, soulful male voice singing in English over it. I was floored, and waited until it was back-announced. (\u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5016744\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Andrew Bird on Talk of the Nation\u003c/a>) As you may recall from my \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/weblog/arts/2005/12/music-review-tiny-cities.html\">Sun Kil Moon review\u003c/a>, this same thing happened to me with Mark Kozelek! Why is it that when I discover new music while driving in the car, rather than from a friend or reading a review, it is so much more meaningful? Perhaps the solitary nature of driving and the intimacy of public or college radio brings it home in a more special way. It feels like my own personal discovery. So it turned out to be Andrew Bird, who I have been hearing about for a few years. I’ve seen his name in club listings, and a couple of friends in far-flung places had mentioned really liking him, but I just never felt the need to investigate further. I can’t believe that none of these friends grabbed me and shouted in my face, “Alison, this is the man for you!!” Because hot damn, he is. Just go to \u003ca href=\"http://www.andrewbird.net/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">AndrewBird.net\u003c/a> and see for yourself. Ooh-la-la!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All I know about Andrew Bird is that he’s from Chicago, and I think he used to play violin in the Squirrel Nut Zippers. And he’s on Ani Di Franco’s label, Righteous Babe. I know — red flags! Red Flags! Swing band! Ani! Ugh! But please, don’t let that stop you from continuing to read this review, I promise there is nothing Swing or righteous babe-ist within a 500-mile radius of this album. The album, which for the sake of space I shall refer to as \u003cb>MPE\u003c/b>, is a textured, layered, moody masterpiece. I would say without reservation that this would be my pick for album of the year 2005.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The foundation, like with any great solo artist, is Bird’s marvelously expressive sexy voice, and his witty, funny, surreal, literate lyrics. But add to that some of the most unique and beautiful instrumental arrangements this side of Tom Waits, Brian Eno or Joe Henry, and throw in Bird’s fantastically bizarre violin-playing and whistling, and you’ve got yourself quite an indescribable album. I’ve had some trouble telling people about it because it is so unique, but as soon as they hear it they are smitten and sold. There is a charming spaciness and worldliness to it all that is hard to pinpoint, and Bird’s musicianship and arrangement skills just take it to another stratosphere where most singer-songwriters could not even breathe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shall I just give you some lyrics from “Opposite Day?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I got home this morning with the sun right in my eyes\u003cbr>\nThere was no warning as it took me by surprise\u003cbr>\nHit me like an act of god causing my alarm\u003cbr>\nThat I’d not become a cephalopod\u003cbr>\nI still had legs and arms\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And today was s’posed to be the day\u003cbr>\nMolecules decided to change their form\u003cbr>\nThe laws of physics lose their sway\u003cbr>\nYouthful indiscretion is suddenly the norm\u003cbr>\nWith the good kids sprouting horns\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bird drops the science in almost every song. Things change shape, fly around, and are numbered, considered, and cherished. He’s a nerd blessed with superb taste and worldly music knowledge. The album swirls and builds with highs and lows, quiets and louds, that culminate in the majestic “The Naming of Things” and its soaring, belted chorus and moaning strings. If the musical package were not revelatory enough, the artwork is colorfully, painstakingly drawn by artist Jay Ryan. Each song boasts a little panel illustrating the lyrics, printed on lovely matte paper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If all were right with the world, Andrew Bird would be sitting on top of it, whistling, singing, and plucking, with a twinkle in his eye. Or as he predicts in “Tables and Chairs”:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There will be tables and chairs\u003cbr>\nPony rides and dancing bears\u003cbr>\nThere’ll even be a band\u003cbr>\nCause listen after the fall there’ll be no more countries\u003cbr>\nNo currencies at all\u003cbr>\nWe’re gonna live on our wits\u003cbr>\nThrow away survival kits\u003cbr>\nTrade butterfly knives for adderal\u003cbr>\nAnd that’s not all\u003cbr>\nThere will be snacks, there will\u003cbr>\nThere will be snacks!!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Purchase \u003ca href=\"http://www.andrewbird.net/eggs.htm\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Andrew Bird – The Mysterious Production of Eggs\u003c/a> (at andrewbird.net).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Recently my friend Lisa e-mailed me from New York to tell me to hurry out and see \u003cb>Shopgirl\u003c/b>, the Steve Martin/Claire Danes/Jason Schwartzman movie. And not because it features two of the sexiest men in movies: one older, grayer and super-smart, the other floppy-haired, big-nosed and delicious. The reason I needed to see it was because tucked into a supporting role is Mark Kozolek, he of the Red House Painters and Sun Kil Moon. He’s got a bit part as a rock musician, and some of his songs are used on the soundtrack. Oh, happy day. That surely made the movie better than it really was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mark Kozolek has one of the most singularly heartbreaking voices I’ve ever heard, and it never fails to give me chills. I own every Red House Painters album, every solo effort, and every release by his latest band, Sun Kil Moon. The first time I heard his voice on KUSF about 10 years ago as I was driving around in my car, I almost had to pull over, it was so dark and inviting. His voice is always way too loud in the mix, so you can’t help but either be sucked in or really annoyed. The songs are slow and dreamy, dark and minimal, with long repeating endings that cycle over and over until you fall into a trance. His music is addictive, and I was pretty obsessed with the Red House Painters for several years, going so far as to write and record a whole album influenced by the band’s masterpiece, \u003cb>Ocean Beach\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toward the end of his Red House Painters run, Kozolek started drifting away from writing the meandering, tragic relationship enders that identified him, and began experimenting with covering some of his favorite rock classics from his teen stoner years. He would take a song like “Long Distance Runaround” by Yes, and give it the RHP treatment, meaning slowing it down to a total dirge and singing it like he was on a morphine drip. Or he would take “Silly Love Songs” by Wings and turn it into an homage to Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer.” He began to do this more and more, and what seemed at first like merely an ironic exercise in pop deconstruction became something more heartfelt. Like Isaac Hayes on \u003cb>Hot Buttered Soul\u003c/b>, he had found a way to take somewhat cheesy pop songs and give them a whole new mood and meaning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In between the demise of RHP and the rise of Sun Kil Moon, Kozolek released his incredible \u003cb>What’s Next to the Moon\u003c/b>, where he covered an entire batch of AC/DC songs in his inimitable stripped-down style. It was a tour-de-force, and he took those dirty, hangdog Bon Scott lyrics to a whole new level of nuance and poetry. A truly astounding feat. You have to give the guy credit, if he wasn’t feeling the original songwriting inspiration coming, instead of giving us a batch of mediocre songs, he took something that only he could hear in the songs of AC/DC and carved the friggin’ David out of a crusty hunk of rock n’ roll stone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His latest effort with Sun Kil Moon, entitled \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b>, is absolutely beautiful. And as I was listening to it the first few times, I looked at the credits and realized that the songs were not his, but were all written by the same person. I racked my brain to try and figure out who it could be, but had not heard any of the songs before. They were so cool, and detached and narcotic, very much like Mark’s own songs. When I hopped online to find out more, I was completely shocked. It’s an entire album covering the songs of Modest Mouse! Now there’s a band I have never been much impressed by, I even saw them once and was pretty non-plussed. I’ve heard a couple of albums here and there but nothing has ever grabbed me. Apparently Mark heard more, because once again he has spun gold out of straw. \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b> is brilliant — lovely, delicate and wide-open like a deserted highway in the middle of the night. Every song boasts lyrics that are cutting, bleak and kind of sadly funny. They’re all about driving, and finding the spiritual in the mundane, and being angry and frustrated with your friends, and wanting security and safety. The arrangements are spare — acoustic guitar, quiet bass & drums, some little strings and harmonies here and there — deep and pretty and altogether appropriate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Run out and get \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b>, whether or not you’re a Modest Mouse fan. Perhaps that would serve to intensify the experience, but I can’t imagine it gets any better that it already is. And while you’re at it get \u003cb>What’s Next to the Moon\u003c/b>, \u003cb>Ocean Beach\u003c/b>, and the Rollercoaster album (so called because it has a rollercoaster on the cover). Then get under the covers and prepare to wallow for several weeks, months, perhaps years. Mark Kozolek will not disappoint you. Well, unless you go see him live. He can be notoriously ornery and self-indulgent onstage. Trust me, I’ve seen him more times than I can count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I played this album at work, my twenty-something co-worker immediately was like “Hey, wait a sec, are these all Modest Mouse songs?” I just shrugged, yeah. But they are so much more.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Recently my friend Lisa e-mailed me from New York to tell me to hurry out and see \u003cb>Shopgirl\u003c/b>, the Steve Martin/Claire Danes/Jason Schwartzman movie. And not because it features two of the sexiest men in movies: one older, grayer and super-smart, the other floppy-haired, big-nosed and delicious. The reason I needed to see it was because tucked into a supporting role is Mark Kozolek, he of the Red House Painters and Sun Kil Moon. He’s got a bit part as a rock musician, and some of his songs are used on the soundtrack. Oh, happy day. That surely made the movie better than it really was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mark Kozolek has one of the most singularly heartbreaking voices I’ve ever heard, and it never fails to give me chills. I own every Red House Painters album, every solo effort, and every release by his latest band, Sun Kil Moon. The first time I heard his voice on KUSF about 10 years ago as I was driving around in my car, I almost had to pull over, it was so dark and inviting. His voice is always way too loud in the mix, so you can’t help but either be sucked in or really annoyed. The songs are slow and dreamy, dark and minimal, with long repeating endings that cycle over and over until you fall into a trance. His music is addictive, and I was pretty obsessed with the Red House Painters for several years, going so far as to write and record a whole album influenced by the band’s masterpiece, \u003cb>Ocean Beach\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Toward the end of his Red House Painters run, Kozolek started drifting away from writing the meandering, tragic relationship enders that identified him, and began experimenting with covering some of his favorite rock classics from his teen stoner years. He would take a song like “Long Distance Runaround” by Yes, and give it the RHP treatment, meaning slowing it down to a total dirge and singing it like he was on a morphine drip. Or he would take “Silly Love Songs” by Wings and turn it into an homage to Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer.” He began to do this more and more, and what seemed at first like merely an ironic exercise in pop deconstruction became something more heartfelt. Like Isaac Hayes on \u003cb>Hot Buttered Soul\u003c/b>, he had found a way to take somewhat cheesy pop songs and give them a whole new mood and meaning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In between the demise of RHP and the rise of Sun Kil Moon, Kozolek released his incredible \u003cb>What’s Next to the Moon\u003c/b>, where he covered an entire batch of AC/DC songs in his inimitable stripped-down style. It was a tour-de-force, and he took those dirty, hangdog Bon Scott lyrics to a whole new level of nuance and poetry. A truly astounding feat. You have to give the guy credit, if he wasn’t feeling the original songwriting inspiration coming, instead of giving us a batch of mediocre songs, he took something that only he could hear in the songs of AC/DC and carved the friggin’ David out of a crusty hunk of rock n’ roll stone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His latest effort with Sun Kil Moon, entitled \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b>, is absolutely beautiful. And as I was listening to it the first few times, I looked at the credits and realized that the songs were not his, but were all written by the same person. I racked my brain to try and figure out who it could be, but had not heard any of the songs before. They were so cool, and detached and narcotic, very much like Mark’s own songs. When I hopped online to find out more, I was completely shocked. It’s an entire album covering the songs of Modest Mouse! Now there’s a band I have never been much impressed by, I even saw them once and was pretty non-plussed. I’ve heard a couple of albums here and there but nothing has ever grabbed me. Apparently Mark heard more, because once again he has spun gold out of straw. \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b> is brilliant — lovely, delicate and wide-open like a deserted highway in the middle of the night. Every song boasts lyrics that are cutting, bleak and kind of sadly funny. They’re all about driving, and finding the spiritual in the mundane, and being angry and frustrated with your friends, and wanting security and safety. The arrangements are spare — acoustic guitar, quiet bass & drums, some little strings and harmonies here and there — deep and pretty and altogether appropriate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Run out and get \u003cb>Tiny Cities\u003c/b>, whether or not you’re a Modest Mouse fan. Perhaps that would serve to intensify the experience, but I can’t imagine it gets any better that it already is. And while you’re at it get \u003cb>What’s Next to the Moon\u003c/b>, \u003cb>Ocean Beach\u003c/b>, and the Rollercoaster album (so called because it has a rollercoaster on the cover). Then get under the covers and prepare to wallow for several weeks, months, perhaps years. Mark Kozolek will not disappoint you. Well, unless you go see him live. He can be notoriously ornery and self-indulgent onstage. Trust me, I’ve seen him more times than I can count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I played this album at work, my twenty-something co-worker immediately was like “Hey, wait a sec, are these all Modest Mouse songs?” I just shrugged, yeah. But they are so much more.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"headTitle": "Fiona Apple: Extraordinary Machine | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>I love Jon Brion. I have loved him for a long time, and my ears will prick up like a little puppy whenever I hear he is involved in anything. That’s how I came to give Fiona Apple a fighting chance in my music listening universe. Because if you know me, you know that I shut down whenever a piano-playing chick floats by on the cultural radar. Being that I am one myself, I have pretty high standards which include no whining, no gasping, and no self-pity. I assume all the other ladies are going to suck as bad as Tori Amos, all witchy-poo theatrics and histrionics. If I can’t deal with her, I certainly couldn’t accommodate some sulky anorexic teenager with big watery blue eyes and a pout that could crush a small city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when I had heard that Jon Brion produced Fiona Apple’s last album, \u003cb>When the Pawn blah blah blahdee blah…\u003c/b> I decided to give it a listen and I actually liked it. For those of you who are not familiar with Mr. Jon Brion, let me give you a quick run-down. Jon Brion has produced such artists as Aimee Mann (his ex-girlfriend — oh the intrigue!), Rufus Wainwright, and even the new Kanye West; he has created gorgeous movie scores for Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love and I Heart Huckabees; he was a founding member of LA power pop super group The Grays; he released his own heart-breakingly delicious solo album called \u003cb>Meaningless\u003c/b>; but most of all he is the most fascinating, multi-talented instrumentalist I have ever seen. Jon Brion plays every single Friday night at the Largo in LA, and if you ever find yourself in LA on a Friday night, it is imperative that you witness what this man can do. It’s truly astounding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have seen him go around the stage and lay parts down on drums, guitar, bass, and organ, using some kind of sampler/looping device, then sit down at the piano and play and sing along as if there’s an entire band backing him up. He can play any ridiculous request thrown at him from the audience “Bohemian Rhapsody as played by Les Paul!” and he can just sit there and write a song on the spot. It’s heavenly to watch, because he’s also adorable, has a wonderful voice, and he’ll bring whatever hipster musical superstar is lurking in the back corner up to jam with him or cover some old jazz standard or Hollies tune. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of all genres of music and can imitate them perfectly, while throwing his own sweet spin on anything. He’ll play for hours, take a break, come back for more, all the while with a huge smile on his face and the audience in the palm of his hand. I’ve never seen anything like it, and probably never will. I hope he plays there forever. He’s the only redeeming thing about Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, I digress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night while I was watching him, transfixed as usual, there was this skinny, tragic-looking figure waiting patiently by the side of the stage. She looked like she was about to cry, or disintegrate. Eventually he brought her out onstage and she pounded the hell out of a new song called “Better Version of Me.” Yes it was Fiona. And she rocked it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now there’s been this big hubbub about her latest album and why it took so long to come out. First she recorded it with Brion producing, then the rumor mill started that Sony didn’t hear a single on it and shelved the whole project. Then she re-recorded it several years later with a new producer and now it has finally come out. In the meantime there was some grassroots gang called “Free Fiona” that was protesting the label for rejecting the original album, then it was leaked onto the internet, and now Fiona is coming out in interviews and saying it was her choice to re-do the album cause she wasn’t happy with it. No hard feelings toward Brion, though Brion isn’t talking. It’s a big, crazy spin zone and who knows what the truth really is, but the album is pretty good!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first song and the last song are the best songs. And maybe it’s a coincidence that those are the two Brion-produced tracks on the album, or maybe he just has impeccable taste. The first song, “Extraordinary Machine” has an old-timey jazz delivery and a clanging bell on it that I love. I’ve never heard a bell used quite like that, signaling the rounds of a psychological boxing match, and it’s one more reason to love that producer man. Fiona’s singing is unbelievable, especially on that first track. She may appear a sullen figure, but her voice is strong and artful and vastly entertaining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most songs on the album tread the territory of bad men that pissed her off, which gets pretty old, but at least she comes at it from varying angles and perspectives, trying to mix it up. Good for her. But perhaps she needs some more life experiences to write about, cause really — who cares about love? She does have a way with a clever phrase that is simultaneously self-deprecating and arrogant. And she tries to take her often predictable piano-pounding into uncharted territories of chord progression and melody. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it’s a really rollicking album to listen to, and she sounds like she’s having a ball.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh Well” is a soaring, gospel-tinged number that throws Alicia Keys’ warmed over cheese-whiz to the floor. “Better Version of Me” (which I constantly confuse with “Best Imitation of Myself” by Ben Folds — another great self-reinvention song) roars and rumbles with some Mensa-worthy wordplay, and there’s a lovely break in the middle of the album with “Parting Gift,” which is just solo piano and voice. I kinda wish there was more of that, to give the ear a rest from all the thumpity-thumpa. Mike Elizondo did an admirable job as the pinch-producer, and although he brought in some real heavy-hitting drummers and such to make the whole thing groove, he still left lots of whimsical touches and oddball sounds and textures. The last song, “Waltz (Better Than Fine),” starts out small, with some little homespun words of affirmation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you don’t have a song to sing, you’re ok\u003cbr>\nyou know how to get along humming\u003cbr>\nif you don’t have a date, celebrate\u003cbr>\ngo out and sit on the lawn and do nothing\u003cbr>\ncause it’s just what you must do and nobody does it anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The song builds so beautifully in its arrangement it leaves you aching when it’s done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I just spent the last hour driving around in the car with my friend Miranda, playing this album for her, both of us marveling over how much we want to hate Fiona. She’s just a nuclear missile of talent and good looks, and it’s nauseating. But what can you do? She’s an extraordinary machine.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>I love Jon Brion. I have loved him for a long time, and my ears will prick up like a little puppy whenever I hear he is involved in anything. That’s how I came to give Fiona Apple a fighting chance in my music listening universe. Because if you know me, you know that I shut down whenever a piano-playing chick floats by on the cultural radar. Being that I am one myself, I have pretty high standards which include no whining, no gasping, and no self-pity. I assume all the other ladies are going to suck as bad as Tori Amos, all witchy-poo theatrics and histrionics. If I can’t deal with her, I certainly couldn’t accommodate some sulky anorexic teenager with big watery blue eyes and a pout that could crush a small city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So when I had heard that Jon Brion produced Fiona Apple’s last album, \u003cb>When the Pawn blah blah blahdee blah…\u003c/b> I decided to give it a listen and I actually liked it. For those of you who are not familiar with Mr. Jon Brion, let me give you a quick run-down. Jon Brion has produced such artists as Aimee Mann (his ex-girlfriend — oh the intrigue!), Rufus Wainwright, and even the new Kanye West; he has created gorgeous movie scores for Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love and I Heart Huckabees; he was a founding member of LA power pop super group The Grays; he released his own heart-breakingly delicious solo album called \u003cb>Meaningless\u003c/b>; but most of all he is the most fascinating, multi-talented instrumentalist I have ever seen. Jon Brion plays every single Friday night at the Largo in LA, and if you ever find yourself in LA on a Friday night, it is imperative that you witness what this man can do. It’s truly astounding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have seen him go around the stage and lay parts down on drums, guitar, bass, and organ, using some kind of sampler/looping device, then sit down at the piano and play and sing along as if there’s an entire band backing him up. He can play any ridiculous request thrown at him from the audience “Bohemian Rhapsody as played by Les Paul!” and he can just sit there and write a song on the spot. It’s heavenly to watch, because he’s also adorable, has a wonderful voice, and he’ll bring whatever hipster musical superstar is lurking in the back corner up to jam with him or cover some old jazz standard or Hollies tune. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of all genres of music and can imitate them perfectly, while throwing his own sweet spin on anything. He’ll play for hours, take a break, come back for more, all the while with a huge smile on his face and the audience in the palm of his hand. I’ve never seen anything like it, and probably never will. I hope he plays there forever. He’s the only redeeming thing about Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, I digress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night while I was watching him, transfixed as usual, there was this skinny, tragic-looking figure waiting patiently by the side of the stage. She looked like she was about to cry, or disintegrate. Eventually he brought her out onstage and she pounded the hell out of a new song called “Better Version of Me.” Yes it was Fiona. And she rocked it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now there’s been this big hubbub about her latest album and why it took so long to come out. First she recorded it with Brion producing, then the rumor mill started that Sony didn’t hear a single on it and shelved the whole project. Then she re-recorded it several years later with a new producer and now it has finally come out. In the meantime there was some grassroots gang called “Free Fiona” that was protesting the label for rejecting the original album, then it was leaked onto the internet, and now Fiona is coming out in interviews and saying it was her choice to re-do the album cause she wasn’t happy with it. No hard feelings toward Brion, though Brion isn’t talking. It’s a big, crazy spin zone and who knows what the truth really is, but the album is pretty good!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first song and the last song are the best songs. And maybe it’s a coincidence that those are the two Brion-produced tracks on the album, or maybe he just has impeccable taste. The first song, “Extraordinary Machine” has an old-timey jazz delivery and a clanging bell on it that I love. I’ve never heard a bell used quite like that, signaling the rounds of a psychological boxing match, and it’s one more reason to love that producer man. Fiona’s singing is unbelievable, especially on that first track. She may appear a sullen figure, but her voice is strong and artful and vastly entertaining.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most songs on the album tread the territory of bad men that pissed her off, which gets pretty old, but at least she comes at it from varying angles and perspectives, trying to mix it up. Good for her. But perhaps she needs some more life experiences to write about, cause really — who cares about love? She does have a way with a clever phrase that is simultaneously self-deprecating and arrogant. And she tries to take her often predictable piano-pounding into uncharted territories of chord progression and melody. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it’s a really rollicking album to listen to, and she sounds like she’s having a ball.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oh Well” is a soaring, gospel-tinged number that throws Alicia Keys’ warmed over cheese-whiz to the floor. “Better Version of Me” (which I constantly confuse with “Best Imitation of Myself” by Ben Folds — another great self-reinvention song) roars and rumbles with some Mensa-worthy wordplay, and there’s a lovely break in the middle of the album with “Parting Gift,” which is just solo piano and voice. I kinda wish there was more of that, to give the ear a rest from all the thumpity-thumpa. Mike Elizondo did an admirable job as the pinch-producer, and although he brought in some real heavy-hitting drummers and such to make the whole thing groove, he still left lots of whimsical touches and oddball sounds and textures. The last song, “Waltz (Better Than Fine),” starts out small, with some little homespun words of affirmation:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you don’t have a song to sing, you’re ok\u003cbr>\nyou know how to get along humming\u003cbr>\nif you don’t have a date, celebrate\u003cbr>\ngo out and sit on the lawn and do nothing\u003cbr>\ncause it’s just what you must do and nobody does it anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The song builds so beautifully in its arrangement it leaves you aching when it’s done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I just spent the last hour driving around in the car with my friend Miranda, playing this album for her, both of us marveling over how much we want to hate Fiona. She’s just a nuclear missile of talent and good looks, and it’s nauseating. But what can you do? She’s an extraordinary machine.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"emailStatus": "EMAIL_UNVALIDATED",
"loggedStatus": "LOGGED_OUT",
"loggingChecked": false,
"articles": [],
"firstName": null,
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{
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},
"authModal": {
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"view": "LANDING_VIEW"
},
"error": null
},
"youthMediaReducer": {},
"checkPleaseReducer": {
"filterData": {
"region": {
"key": "Restaurant Region",
"filters": [
"Any Region"
]
},
"cuisine": {
"key": "Restaurant Cuisine",
"filters": [
"Any Cuisine"
]
}
},
"restaurantDataById": {},
"restaurantIdsSorted": [],
"error": null
},
"userAgentReducer": {
"userAgent": "Mozilla/5.0 AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko; compatible; ClaudeBot/1.0; +claudebot@anthropic.com)",
"isBot": true
}
}
