PATTI SMITH

Bought a copy of Just Kids yesterday. Finished it this morning. Vividly evocative and profoundly emotive, a less guarded Chronicles. Illuminations for aspiring artists, explorations for those on a quest to break down the barriers all over again.

BEACH HOUSE

A couple of years ago I was at a concert where Beach House quietly upstaged the perpetually wayward Cat Power. Chan Marshall is always unpredictable live. I've seen her hypnotize a crowd alone in near darkness. I've witnessed her walking over an audience with a glass of JD and ice singing Otis Redding. This time she seemed merely tired and erratic. Possibly she was bored of her covers band. I don't blame her. Now she's recording an album solo, like in the good old days. Could be sick. The willful southerner in her, that vast displacement, leaves you constantly unsure of her next move. Lonesome introspection or an out of joint jam with Wu-Tang? Don't you doubt it.

Where was I? Beach House. Poet Tom Paulin once memorably described Madonna's Ray Of Light as 'Jacuzzi music'. Well, Teen Dream's an island of claustrophobic warmth surrounded by the cold, cold ocean. Facing an odyssey of sugared reassurance, radicalism shrugged and gave up the ghost. They stick to a template; gauzy reverb guitar, attentive drum machines and caressing organ chords. Victoria Legrand's vocals and lyrics are again a curious paradox of spaced out ethereality and grainy depressiveness. If Chan Marshall's songs can feel uncomfortably exposed, Legrand's remain outwardly elusive. Soft-focus mush aside, their muggy unknowability does beguile and allure, Zebra's languid ruminations almost eclipsing the intoxicating Gila, from Devotion. Following on, Silver Soul shines with equal magnificence in it's subtle glory. Despite resistance, I have been seduced.

KATE MCGARRIGLE 1946-2010

I cherish the self-titled debut and The Dancer With Bruised knees, she was an underrated miracle of wit and wry compassion.

OWEN PALLETT

  Linda sat on the bus as it crawled thru the city. Under her left arm was a grocery bag full of fresh citrus fruit. In her hands lay a notebook, ready and hungry for smoked revelations. A tramp threw up on the street, a kid took a picture on his phone. Weirdly compelling, the paranoid shuffler moved in a figure of eight. Over there, a girl put on some magenta mascara while ignoring the attentions of an eager admirer. Closing her eyes, she transcended the noise, the violent uncensored information by conjuring a scene from the 12th century; the supernatural visions of Merlin, and natural disbelief of King Arthur. Inhabiting another reality, she almost missed her stop.

Edward had been taking self-portraits on an ancient polaroid, nicknamed 'Void'. The results were pasted onto a faded mirror that shifted perspective according to different views. He was awaiting her return. The warm keys turned the locks. 'Linda, you gotta hear this! There's still ferocious coffee in the pot'.

A symphony filled the four corners of their room. Propulsive, hunter beats anchored sonic overflow. 'Who is this?' she proclaimed. 'Owen Pallett, got it today'. 'He sounds half asleep' she remarked, tuning into his sneaking voice. 'Just wait, he's casual but sincere'. Plucked violins crept like cheerful field mice, lavas opened, Mount Alpentine rushed on discordance and atonalism. 'What's the libretto, his words are too buried in the mix'. 'A conceptual riff on an angry farmer. Who cares, let the music take hold of you' he answered. She chewed her nails and noticed a mood of rarified and well mannered exuberance that stood in stark contrast to the exhilaration of her favorite rock idols. She admired the stately arrangements, even if she couldn't totally share Edward's enthusiasm. 'Shimmies for Van Dyke Parks to shake Pina Coladas to' he grinned.

'I need a pee' she sighed. 'Wait, the best one is coming next' he replied with glee. 'Darn, what are we, an existential Beavis and Butthead?'. Holy mother of God. E Is For Estranged was unbelievably beautiful, tilting strings, eternally mysterious scripture, the way he weaved melody was a sad, sensual pleasure. An elegy to lost love. She held his bony frame in her arms. 'Okay, you have sold it to me'. As they danced slowly, a tender dawn awoke beneath the smoggy sky.

ERIC ROHMER 1920-2010

Enchanting films of modest magic and delicate observation; Claire's Knee, Love in the Afternoon, The Green Ray and The Romance of Astrea and Celadon.

VAMPIRE WEEKEND

Bram S JR was traveling back from NYC to London across the sweeping atlantic. On a packed airplane he wondered how to waste some time. No way was he gonna suffer through Mamma Mia again. Searching the selection on High Mile radio he stumbled upon Vampire Weekend's debut. Wow those dudes must be like international now or something. Weren't they that group he'd turned his nose up at before? The champagne clouds drifted by his window. Last night Obama had emerged victorious and America seemed to burst with regained optimism.

Putting in the lame ear plugs he found musical elevation. He'd been so wrong about them. I mean white guys doing African in an ironic fashion? Pretty contrived. At least those middle aged rockers in the 80's wanted to save the world. Why not buy a Fela Kuti record and be done with it. But this was nothing like that, nothing so cynical. Oxford Comma sat up and snapped at you with it's bright, fervent passion, M79 shared a joke with Mozart and The Kids Don't Stand A Chance announced itself as a modern anthem, one you could shout along to without shame.

Anticipating jet lag with a smile he purchased a copy at the airport upon arrival.

That was then. Skating round Central Park's ice rink-only a distant memory. Contra, Vampire Weekend's second album was already out. Was he stoked? Kinda, he couldn't say. The first two songs immediately felt like reuniting with old friends from those heady times. Horchata celebrated an obscure drink over thumb pianos and the lightest of tribal rhythms. White Sky featured Ezra Koenig's happy continuation of Paul Simon's conversational intricacies, and his sublime gift with a melody. Richard Serra replaced Jackson Pollock as a lyrical reference. After that? Well, it all started to turn pleasant enough. The high pitched guitars still rang out. There were dalliances with auto-tune, Arthur Russell cello shapes, the cheapest of synth beats, but where was the urgency or excitement? Hard to fault, harder to relate, so he cranked up Sunn O instead on the stereo. Yet later in the sleepy night the gentle sway of I Think Ur A Contra bewitched him, had he been too hasty in his opinion after all? Maybe they deserved a second chance.