Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

Sometimes I believe that my life would be a lot easier to deal with if I could accept the idea that another person can like me in any way possible. Sometimes I wonder if I could somehow leap over this high hurdle that maybe I’d be able to find a way to love another and myself. How does one leap this barrier? Is it possible, because it doesn’t feel like it? Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who is unable to clear the wall, like the one kid who cannot do a sit up or pull up in grade school, or if that barrier is there for all of us and I am too narcissistic to recognize that it is a struggle we are all burdened by, or if my self loathing and navel gazing has led me to pass by more than one chance to avoid feeling alone all of the time.

Currently, I am in the midst of reading the book that my friend Mindy introduced me to: This Will End in Tears – The Miserabilist Guide to Music by Adam Brent Houghtaling, which may or may not be to blame for my recent resurgence of listening to the Smiths. Whatever the case, I highly recommend it for those people out there who immerse themselves into the music they love. The book is basically made up of an alphabetical list of a wide variety of artists and bands that have made music that in general has been considered somewhat of a downer. The breadth of genres and artist’s involved is impressive, as is the sheer amount of exhaustive research that went into each artist’s essay. These synopses, which are informative, are broken up into sections, which are opened with essays about miserable song themes such as disease, the rain, catastrophes, disease, death (murder), death (suicide), and death, while some specific songs are singled out for a closer look. The book ends with a Top 100 song list of the most miserable songs and it makes for a fascinating read.

What makes a song or an artist or band a miserable one? This is all way too subjective, but this book is a very nice introduction to an interesting dialogue. It makes one wonder what is our fascination with sad songs? We know that certain notes can have a mood inducing effect on people in general, but why would we seek it out? As Nick Hornby’s character Rob Fleming asks in his book High Fidelity, which came first, “the music or the misery?” Personally, I believe it’s the misery and the music is there to provide comfort, camaraderie and understanding. Though, there are instances where music can draw out deep levels of sadness that may at that moment have been buried safely away.

I offhandedly mentioned The Smiths earlier. I grew up with the Smiths and the Cure through my high school years, which like most people, is an awkward overly dramatic time filled with confusion and desperation, but I never really thought of the Smiths or the Cure as miserable, despite their legendary labels as such. Sure both bands have their strikingly dark moments, but I cannot listen to Johnny Marr’s music from those days and not feel energized and transported by his effervescent and inspired performances. Besides, the tag was clearly given directly to Morrissey and his lyrics, which admittedly can at times be so direct and honest and to the point that it’s hard not to wallow in the pits of loneliness and emptiness and worthlessness that he can emote (“Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me,” and “Well I Wonder” are prime examples of songs that spoke to my experience then and, well, now), but to me his lyrics and singing style have always provided more of a cutting wit and disgust with the way things are in general and individually. Sure a song such as “Half a Person” is deeply sad and pathetic really, but it’s hard to take seriously. Similarly, the Cure has entire albums that dwell on the darkest subjects (Pornography anyone? Disintegration?), but the very first song of theirs that I consciously ever noticed was the silly jazzy “The Lovecats,” and I have often felt that no band around can match their ability to write silly energetic pop songs like “Why Can’t I Be You?,” or “Friday I’m in Love.” Depeche Mode is also a band that has been slapped with the miserable label, and they can be, but I never thought of them as such. Their well known “Blasphemous Rumours” spoke to me as a young teen who was struggling with the idea of the existence of a God, but the story told through the verses is so heavy handed and over the top that it makes me laugh (especially with the breathing machine sound effects!).

It is all so subjective and really all depends on one’s mood at any time, or even over time and experiences that can tie those songs into one’s own life story. Sometimes it isn’t the so-called miserable songs that can drive one down a dark road. For example, I have a good idea why the positively warm song “The Letter” by Allo Darlin’ makes me want to break down and cry every single time I hear it (a song that inspired my recent dry and needs a lot of work short story That Smiling Face), but to this day, I have no idea why Madonna’s early celebratory dance hit “Holiday” fills me with lament and puts a lump in my throat.

There are hundreds of songs and albums that I go to for comfort and understanding when I need to find solace in my collection of sad songs and I have written about a lot of them either via album re-evaluations, end of the year reviews or as the basis for my weak short stories. If I am forced to name a few examples, it’d be a struggle. There is the entirety of Mark Eitzel’s solo acoustic album Songs of Love Live, which is something akin to punching one’s own bruise or picking at a scab, but even though the song that opens that collection, “Firefly” reminds me of my biggest regrets, it has also provided goose bumps and chills down my spine. I have always found myself attracted to the claustrophobic and hopeless words and sounds of Joy Division, but even the brighter New Order’s “Regret” can make me inconsolable. I find myself easily saddened by the brittle heartbreak of the Field Mice/ Trembling Blue Stars/ Northern Picture Library/ Picture Center family of heartbroken songs, or the deep baritone of Michael Gira’s Swans when he draws out that voice over an acoustic or on top of a giant arrangement. Or how can I forget how the Wild Swans’ Bringing Home the Ashes album from 1988 that provided me with a moping soundtrack for the emptiness I felt as a high school senior. And there’s always the hyper specific life moment that I will always associate with Abecedarians’ two amazing songs: “Wildflower” and “They Said Tomorrow.” I could go on and on, but there’s no need to. The book started an internal conversation for me, but it’s one that makes me curious about what music tears others’ hearts out and why they go to them even though they know that they will feel miserable.  Feel free to share!

Queen Elvis

For many reasons, I rarely write concert reviews. The main one being, there isn’t a lot of point. It happened. It’s not like a record, which can be found and enjoyed by other people at any time. Some nights an artist or band may not play up to their potential, so a bad review may not be an accurate reflection of their usual performances, or vice versa. However, every once in a while I’m either filled with all kinds of thoughts during a show that I feel that I have to share (whether you like it or not!), or simply need to sort out my thoughts about what just happened. In this case, I am trying to figure it all out.


My friend Jeff and I originally saw Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians play in the fall of 1989 at the old Pine Street Theater in Portland, Oregon. We were new friends and new to college. This was the first concert of dozens that we would see together as friends over the years. Hitchcock was touring in support of his 1989 album Queen Elvis. This was the second time I had seen him perform. What made those old Robyn Hitchcock shows so entertaining was his unceasing ability to tell amusing stream of thought stories as an introduction to nearly every song. He would ramble on and on throwing one’s mind down dizzying spirals of nonsense and moments of poignancy before launching into an oddly heartfelt Beatles inspired tune. Jeff was new to Portland, having grown up near Los Angeles, so he was fascinated by the intimacy of the venue and the pure inanity of the light “show.” He was used to seeing bands in 3,000 seat venues, while here in tiny Portland; I had seen many of the same bands on the same tours with 200 to 300 people in attendance. Meanwhile, I went through a fit when we walked into the Pine Street to see several rows of chairs lined up in front of the stage – something I had never seen before then or since.

With a small nod to nostalgia, we went ahead and attended another Robyn Hitchcock show as he tours with the Venus 3 in support of his newest album Love from London. I had continued to buy Hitchcock’s many releases over the years, but my interest has waned. Personally, I felt he peaked with his second solo acoustic album Eye in 1990 and after seeing him perform multiple times between 1988 and 1998; I had stopped attending in recent years. Yet, there we found ourselves, 23 and a half years older, on a Monday night, checking the time, because we were both facing an early morning of work and responsibility ahead of us.

The night began with the Peter Buck Band (or Peter Buck of R.E.M. with the Venus 3?) performing new songs that he has been working on for a solo record (he said a new single was released that day – I didn’t investigate). It’s all become a little incestuous. Buck has served as a guest on several Hitchcock albums throughout the years and now that both seem to live in the Northwest, they seem to be sharing a band. The Venus 3 has involved many Seattle punk rock luminaries from Young Fresh Fellows and the Fastbacks. It was surreal seeing Kurt Bloch of the Fastbacks and many other bands (not to mention prolific good guy producer) and Bill Rieflin, who I didn’t realize had become R.E.M.’s drummer in the later years. This shocked both Jeff and I, as we have always associated his powerful style with the industrial bands we cut our teeth on 20 some odd years before like Swans, Ministry, Revolting Cocks, Lard and KMFDM. This would not be the only thing that would throw us off our game.

We now know why Peter Buck was not R.E.M.’s vocalist. He is a great guitarist and helped form a legendary band’s signature sound, but as a front man, his voice is not appealing. Neither were his new songs. They sounded generic - a bar band blues that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Friday night at a suburban Applebee’s bar. Personally, I was not impressed. However, a few songs in, local hero Corin Tucker, famously of Sleater-Kinney and now her own band, stepped in to sing two songs. They were both excellent. Musically, they fit her strong voice to a tee and she sang with her usual soulful passion. Buck and Bloch even played guitar lines reminiscent of Tucker’s own style. Then, Buck called out to the audience to bring up Mike Mills, his long time band mate from R.E.M. for a flawless rendition of his 1984 “(Don’t Go Back to) Rockville.” This partial ad hoc R.E.M. reunion brought the phones out in force as much of the crowd pushed closer to the stage like the Paparazzi. I felt like maybe I was witnessing something special – something one of a kind and spontaneous – but at the same time, they just broke up within the last year and the okay country jangle of that old song brought back some memories and made me realize that I never bothered to try to see R.E.M. live. They were always a band where I liked a few songs here and there, but was not really a fan. After that moment, the set returned to Buck’s stale songs and goofy vocals.

It was all so strange. Peter Buck, an actual member of the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame, with his fancy guitar, was opening for Robyn Hitchcock at the tiny Doug Fir Lounge. Jeff and I were confused and not sure what to make of any of it. Front and center at the stage was a guy who dressed and emulated Michael Stipe from the “Losing My Religion” era, local news reporter Kyle Iboshi was standing to Jeff’s left, and we had 40 year old blond drunk party girls dancing and texting and taking pictures in front of us – as if they were forever 21. Before Robyn Hitchcock took the stage, we were confounded and exhausted.

Robyn Hitchcock finally took the stage and surprisingly, the crowd only thinned slightly (people seemed to know that all this weird opening act stuff was going to go down – though the ad just mentioned Peter Buck as a “special guest”). He started with a few acoustic numbers and then essentially the same band that played the first set returned and they played a variety of tracks from his last 25 years worth of records (though I could've used "Wax Doll"). The performance was solid and entertaining, but severely lacking his signature story telling. It lacked the spontaneity of all of those old shows I had seen so damn long ago.

I was hoping that writing out what we had witnessed would help make sense of the confusion I felt during the show and after. Unfortunately, it hasn’t. It is still confusing. Maybe I have seen too many concerts. Maybe I’m too jaded to just let go and have fun at what seemed to be a festive celebratory environment, or maybe my interests have changed. And though the Peter Buck set had the highest high of the evening with the quick appearance of Corin Tucker and secondly the Mike Mills led song, the best part was seeing Robyn Hitchcock again. Unfortunately, I have seen him do so much better.

* original painting by Robyn Hitchcock

That Smiling Face

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” Sophia said and laughed nervously.

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself! You’ll do just fine!” Chuck responded immediately, trying to fight the urge to reach over and touch her arm and verge into creepy territory.

“This is my first visit…”

“We’ll be there together and we’ll work through it together,” he tried to be reassuring. He was always a little nervous about these visits as it is and this was still his responsibility, so having someone there to help always comforted him. He always appreciated the back up. He was also nervous because he had developed a crush on her from afar. She was so pretty and so keen on jumping in and helping anyone and everyone out.

The week prior, Sophia approached him at the office out of the blue. He had seen her around, but didn’t know who she was. He had noticed her wandering through the office with her resonant smile and that long dark hair. Now here she was asking him if she could join him on his next run of home visits. Turns out she’s interning two days a week and wants to expand her experiences at their busy little office. Chuck straightened his back and stammered an approval. She brightened and said enthusiastically: “See you next week Charles!”

There she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car and he had been trying to prepare himself for this all week. He knew she would be with him, and he hoped that he would like her as much as he found her physically attractive. He wanted to make a good impression. So far during the drive across town everything had gone great in Chuck’s mind. Sophia was easy to talk with. She was interesting and engaging. She told him about what she wanted to do with her life and why she was interning. She wanted to help senior citizens. She wanted to be an advocate for them. She was going to school to study all angles of the social, political, and health concerns of all of our grandparents. She told Chuck about how her dream had been sidetracked as she initially dropped out of college to begin raising her two young children, but how after her divorce, she found the courage and wits to get her affairs in order and return to school. He marveled at the idea of her raising two young kids on her own, working a job, going to school full time and still taking time to volunteer (or intern) where he works in order to achieve her goals. It made him feel a great admiration for her and very sheepish about how much time he wastes away every day.

Still, despite, his own personal misgivings about the state of his life, that half hour with Sophia instilled Chuck with energy and inspiration. She helped him realize that his job is important and increased his focus on the few visits he had scheduled for them that morning.

“What will they think of me?” she asked him, concerned that his clients wouldn’t take her seriously.

“Just be the kind, courteous, and caring person you seem to be and they will all love you. They will prefer you over me, I’m certain. The most important advice I can offer is to genuinely listen to what these fine people say and ask,” Chuck offered.

Sophia let that last sentence hang in the air and they sat in the car wordless as Chuck turned left and pulled the car into an apartment complex parking lot. He kept hearing his own annoying voice echo around his thoughts. He always hated being aware of his voice and the stupid sounding things he would find himself saying. He didn’t allow this to deter him though. Being with Sophia made him feel positive and he had had a great week leading up to this day. He had been social and hung out with friends. He had found himself noticing an occasional smile from women he would pass at the grocery store and the bank and over the weekend he was pretty certain that the bartender at Bottles was flirting with him. He felt foolish thinking such a silly thing, but it made him smile anyway.

They grabbed some notebooks out of the back of his car after Chuck finally found an open parking spot and Sophia shadowed him as they made their way to the front entrance of the building to see Howard. Howard was in his 80s and mostly bed ridden and needed help filling out some insurance forms.

“You have a pretty girl following you! Heh Heh!” someone shouted towards them from the smoking area near the front door.

“I sure do. It must be my lucky day!” Chuck shouted back, as he grabbed a security card from his notebook and used it to open the door.

**********

“Do you think Victor will be okay?” Sophia asked Chuck after they climbed out of his car at the office parking lot. He noticed that she had turned her face skyward to absorb the warmth of the sunshine after she asked about Victor. He cursed himself for keeping the car too chilly. Too much air!

“I sure hope so. His health hasn’t been very good lately. I’ll be joining him for his doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so we’ll see,” he told her with enthusiasm, but he knew that Victor was not doing well. “I sure hope so,” he mumbled.

“He’s so sweet,” she added before thanking Chuck for letting her go along.

Chuck did not want to say goodbye, but it was clear that their arrangement for the day had come to an end. He did need to file his reports and make some phone calls and so on.

“Thank you, Sophia!” he chirped back overenthusiastically. She headed off to see Theresa, her advisor, and he headed to his downstairs office to check his email. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened. His face was flushed and his heart was racing. He was smitten, whether he wanted to be or not. He sent Sara a quick email about how his “hot date” had gone. Sara was the only one he had told about his new crush and how she had arranged their afternoon together. Sara was the wife of one of oldest and dearest friends. She had become his closest confidant, unwittingly, with his imaginary matters of the heart.

“Do you think you’ll pursue her?” was Sara’s immediate response, always the one to get straight to the point.

He pondered with his hands hovering over the keyboard, “Do I?” he thought. All of his crushes had gone nowhere except for one, which became a suffocating nightmare after only a couple of months before coughing, choking, and wheezing to a collapsing, yet merciful end.
“Not sure. She has two kids and is always busy. Not sure I’m ready for that,” he carefully pecked out. “I do really really like her though.”

“Hmmm…when will you see her next?” Sara replied immediately.

“Next Thursday,” he answered, realizing that the week ahead without seeing her made him feel sad. Again, he paused and wasn’t sure what to type. He knew he had all kinds of emotions boiling under the surface, but none of them made any sense. “I guess I’ll just talk to her then.”

**********

Luckily for Chuck his week was incredibly busy. He had a weekend scheduled with friends and family. Nearly every night was booked with some sort of social engagement and work was always three weeks behind schedule and there to keep him occupied. Sometimes he had to over schedule his time because he struggled to be alone. Alone, his thoughts always turned to what he was missing. It was when he was alone that he realized that he had been alone for far too long. He thought of Victor. He thought about how he was close to the end and had no family and no friends around to care for him or to simply keep him company. All he had were occasional visits from people who were paid to check in on him. A big part of his job was employing a heavy dose of empathy and none of his clients could possibly know how deeply he understood their plight.

**********

Chuck splashed on some cologne for the first time in about a year. He laughed as he glanced at the small bottle in his hand. He didn’t know what this was, where it came from, or if it still existed. He wasn’t even sure if he liked the smell, or if the smell was the same as it had been when it appeared in his medicine cabinet countless years ago. He tried to wash it off moments later. He smiled and bounced around that morning and hummed along with the Allo Darlin’ CD playing quietly from the oversized speakers in his adjoining bedroom:

“If I told you

I was never cool
And all I wanted

Was just to have you

And when I see you

I will put my arm around you

It will be hard to let you go”

One of Chuck’s other crushes was with lead singer Elizabeth Morris’s voice, and the uplifting message of “The Letter” was a perfect song to start his hopeful day ahead. Even with his busy week behind him, the idea of seeing Sophia had always been at the forefront of his mind. He was hoping that she would join him on some more visits. He pulled the disc out of the player and took it with him for the commute to work.

**********

That magical smiling face of Sophia’s caught Chuck’s eye as he finally spied her on her way into the office. He had kept looking at the window all morning and there she was. She waved a greeting to Cindy as they passed in the parking lot. He was stuck on a conference call, which he had long ago stopped paying attention to. All he wanted to do was drop the line and rush to the entrance to greet her. He didn’t know what he would say anyway, so he put his head down on his desk and continued to tune out the chatter coming from his phone. He didn’t see her again the rest of that day.

**********

“Good morning,” Chuck said to Sophia as she wandered into the break room. She had her back to him and looked out the window. He was squirting old coffee from a broken urn. She had surprised him. He hadn’t seen her all morning and wasn’t sure if she was scheduled to work on Fridays.

“Oh, hey,” she glanced back over her shoulder.

“How are you doing?” he asked, ready to ask more rapid fire generic small talk questions to keep her around.

“Okay,” she said as she turned around. She turned her attention to the doorway. Chuck could hear voices. She trotted out of the room after them.

“Hey, Mark,” he heard her voice again. “Would you mind if I joined you for that meeting today?”

“Sure! I’m headed out now. Come on,” Mark encouraged.

Chuck poured his cold cup of coffee down the sink and sat down at the table. He thought about their drive the week before. It was then that he realized that through their entire conversation, the only questions she asked of him had to do with work, while he had touched on not only work, but also her life and her interests and her kids and childhood. When Sara asked him if he was going to pursue her, he only thought about the idea of him not being able to handle being a part of her busy life with kids, school, and work. He could only think about the amorphous directionless mess of a life he had always led – a life without a plan. All he could count on each day is that he would wind up at work the next day until he could no longer work anymore. He never considered what she might think of him. She smartly was on a fast track to achieve her goals, which had nothing to do with him. Chuck needed to get to Victor’s to take him to his doctor’s appointment. The last prognosis was not positive. He started his car and rolled down the window. Allo Darlin’s “The Letter” spurted on midway through the song. This time Elizabeth’s words made him feel overwhelmed with emptiness. He wanted a beautiful voice to be singing those words to him – not for him.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

“I was frustrated and angry”

Sometimes a band and/or an album come along at the perfect time. When I was spending three years strapped into a dialysis chair for three days a week for four to five hours at a time there wasn’t a lot to look forward to each day outside of trying to make it through a work day and surviving. One might think with all that downtime at dialysis, I could at least get in a lot of reading, listen to a ton of music and maybe even write. One might think that, but for the most part those years are blank. I pretty much lost my fanatical taste and exuberance for music, I did read my way through many sleepless, restless nights, but couldn’t focus while going through those awful sessions. There are a few exceptions. Every once in a while an album or a song would come along to breathe new life into my waning soul. It was at a 2002 summer time Dillinger Four show (a rough and tumble Minneapolis punk band, who I discovered in the late 90s through another Allied Records punk compilation Invasion of the Indie Snatchers in my constant search for a new punk rock band to replace Husker Du, then Jawbreaker and J Church, then V Card, etc. in my weird little lexicon – see the prior two posts Ache and Letter to Hope), when opening act the Lawrence Arms cranked out the soaring and heartfelt “Nebraska” and blew my friend Jeff and I away. Initially, during their set, we exchanged accepting glances, because we were surprised to find an opening act we’d never heard of, earning our jaded attention. It was when we heard memorable lines from “Nebraska” like “your sarcasm radiates unhappiness / so withdrawn and rooted deep inside” over a dry repetitive guitar pluck, before exploding into an earnest desire to help a depressed friend (“your bitterness doesn’t surprise me / as these pointless days go screaming by / rejected sour eyes / can’t imagine blue skies / I wish you could find something to live for / besides the agony of bleeding towards this last breath”) that completely won us over. It was those understanding words that I needed to hear during a time when I felt sick and weak all of the time and wasn’t sure if I would ever get an opportunity for a kidney transplant. It was hearing those words coming from a self deprecating loose punk band that made it seem somehow more poignant.

Nebraska live 2009

The Lawrence Arms are (or were) a punk rock trio from Chicago, who have released five albums along with a couple of split albums, singles and a ton of punk compilation tracks (so far between 1999 and 2009). I love every single one of them. However, it was their 2003 fourth album, The Greatest Story Ever Told, which stands as their high point both creatively and for me personally. It is also their most overlooked. It’s one of those album albums. Most of the songs connect together and reference each other creating a big picture theme. In other words, it’s not the type of album where it’s easy to pull out a song or two for mixes to share, nor is it easy to listen to just one song. It is an experience. It isn’t a bloated double or triple album mess. It is concise at just over 30 minutes and stays true to their roots – roots that land firmly in the long standing sensibilities of Midwestern punk rock. Their hard partying tales of ineptitude and debauchery provide a picture perfect postcard into the life of the disaffected and downtrodden in an insightful and an alternately blunt and poetic way. This album is brilliant at mixing odd pop cultural references with literary masterpieces into a cohesive message of frustration and anger (there are mentions of Juggalos and Hot Shots Part Deux slipped in between references of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and the Margarita, painter Elhajiman Young, writers J.D. Salinger, Tobias Jeg and Gustav Meyrink among others – and yes, there are actually footnotes for the lyrics!). It is that message of frustration and anger and feelings of helplessness that I not only identified with during those dialysis sickness years, but fed off of. Their music and this album inspired me and filled me with an energy that I had forgotten I was capable of. It was the 2003 holy trinity of albums spewing social and political outrage TSOL’s Divided We Stand, Killing Joke’s second self-titled masterpiece along with this, The Greatest Story Ever Told, that helped me find my outrage and verve and passion for music and life again. It became impossible for me to listen to a song like “Alert the Audience” and ever feel sorry for myself, while reclining in the pleather dialysis chair, hearing bassist Brendan Kelly’s raspy voice shouting at me in my headphones during the shredding climax of the song:

“I’m a clown and I’m choking on blood, teeth and tongue

Fuck the spectators. Fuck the ‘he was so young’

Fuck forced sympathy through lifeless glass eyes

Povichian voyeurs drinking my cries

Fuck faced trilobites waiting to die

I can’t stand the humor, and I can’t stand the lies”

Instead I became instilled with a desire to back control of my failing health and fight to overcome or at least fail trying my hardest to make a difference, while scratching to survive.

“I’m a clown, we’re only here to entertain” is the thematic link that spreads throughout this album, starting with the ‘Hobo Clown Chorus’ that acts as the introduction amongst a hacking cough and the sound of a beer can opening. Could it be a statement of dissatisfaction and disaffection from the faceless masses (the 99%) who help earn fortunes and glory for the few and are left with little recognition and reward? I think so (“Tear us up and stuff us down the drain” is the Hobo Clown Chorus’ concluding outro). Fittingly, the incredibly detailed and impressive sleeve art is loaded with old fashioned circus imagery to go with the repeated circus references in the lyrics. From that opening introduction, the album unwinds as guitarist Chris McCaughan and Brendan Kelly alternate the lead on each song. This is an important distinction, because they are two very different sounding vocalists and have very difference styles - Kelly’s more profane lyrics and chaotic bursts of noise pair perfectly with McCaughan’s more refined punk balladry (whatever that is). I can honestly say that I have no favorite song from this astounding collection that sweeps by too fast to fathom – begging for repeated listening.  I absolutely love this album from beginning to end.

Come to think of it, listening to this album now reminds me that I need to heed the lessons I learned ten years ago. It’s time to stop the slide into lethargy and regain some fire. Isn’t that what rock-n-roll has always been about?

The Disaster March 2003

Letter to Hope

I have referenced it several times over these many posts over the years, either via journal style entries or through short stories, but the early 90s was a terrible time for me. Besides dealing with my own fairly serious health crises, I lost my mom to cancer, lost two friends to suicide, and frittered away what may have been my best shot at love. It didn’t help that this all went down during the emotionally charged age of the early twenties, when pretty much everything that happens in life seems way more epic and significant than it really is due to a lack of experience crossed with heavy doses of uncertainty while trying to find a direction with life. These are things that we all experience.


The main way I have always chosen to deal with personal crisis is to turn to music. It has always been my sanctuary. I rise with it when I am on a high, maintain with it when things are running along routinely, and wallow with it when times turn rough. Writing about Jawbreaker with the previous post (Ache), a lot of those powerful and dark memories that coincided with that band’s existence have returned to the forefront of my thoughts. So too has much of the music that I discovered during my efforts to track down every single song that Jawbreaker released. Not only did that great band release four amazing albums, but they routinely put some of their best songs onto different punk compilations from around the country, so I had to track those down too. It was through these that I ran into the frighteningly prolific and always thought provoking J Church (from the legendary 17 Reasons Mission District 7” boxed set), the tumultuous buzz saw shred of Radon, the politically fueled Strawman, among many others. However, it was hearing the early Husker Du - like magic of Spoke’s “Descant,” (from the 1993 Allied Records’ amazing compilation: Music for the Proletariat) that inspired me to check out more from them and would lead me to find great solace, comfort, and joy in their words and sounds (little did I know then, that I already had this song on a spilt 7” that came sleeved in a comic book from a year or so prior).

It’s always a little discouraging when you get all excited to listen to a new CD from a newly discovered band and the credits in the little booklet state this about the band: “Spoke was Chuck Horne, Scot Hagel, and Jonathan Resh.” Sadly, by the time Spoke’s first CD Done, a 1994 collection of their three 7” singles and a couple of compilation offerings, the band had split. This is a massive shame, because these early recordings from this Florida trio show a huge amount of promise. All three members sing and write songs and this versatility is what seems to drive my love of punk rock trios (which would be a list way too long to bother to provide). Done, as a whole is, not surprisingly, a little scattershot, considering that it’s a compilation of their earliest songs. The metal tinged opener “Anithistamine,” which makes using an inhaler for an asthma attack sound like breathing in napalm on a battlefield (“clenched fists grind down abraded eyes”) before relief finally comes (“I cannot prove how my misery’s removed”). Similarly, “Harsher Winds Fall” and “Crushed” come along later in the proceedings with a striking metallic influence, which isn’t really my thing, but they are decent songs. “Harsher Winds Fall” addresses the sad fact that racism continues to be an issue in these times over some tight riffage, while “Crushed” is a short burner with abstract words that effective convey the feeling of being trampled by someone you hold dear. Other than these small examples of a metal side, Spoke seem to have brought to the table more of a punk rock aesthetic. Their heartfelt and sometimes roughly played songs remind me of the early Lemonheads as fronted by Ben Deily (Spoke was also recorded by Tom Hamilton, who recorded those first three Lemonheads releases) and when Jonathan Resh takes over the lead, he has a gruff, yet spot on vocal style that reminds of Bob Mould during his Husker Du years (check out the chorus of “Prey” or the aforementioned “Descant”). What really made these guys always stand out for me amongst the rolling drums fills, buzzing guitars and mid range exploratory bass lines they provide are their powerful lyrics. Having said that, there are two instrumentals, “Mareado” and “You & Joy” that are downright harrowing and exhilarating. They tackle politics (“Descant”), racism (“Harsher Winds Fall”), religion (“Prey”), prostitution (“Dark City Sister”), and of course many matters of the heart. Just try to get the repeated refrain from the wistful love song “Just a Thought” out of your head (“she’s a rose in a pond of water”).

Luckily, Spoke left us with an actual debut album All We Need of Hell (the title fittingly taken from the Emily Dickinson poem “Parting”) that was also released posthumously in 1994. The liner notes provide that two of the songs included were written in memory of two different people lost and that loss is reflected all over this massive 19 song album. It is those two heart wrenching songs that provided the understanding comfort I needed to help with my losses. “Letter to Hope” instantly became one of the most powerful songs in my collection with its poetic imagery, swiftly shuffling music, and Resh’s mournful, angry and lost vocals. Just hearing the song now makes tears well up in my eyes (“and though I still stand unresolved / and though her world came to an end / and though she can’t be seen again / the ink bleeds forth from the pen of what once was / I’ll soon send my letter to hope”). Likewise, “Lil,” the other tribute, uses sparse lyrics to create a powerful scene of uncomfortable uncertainty (“close the light / but I don’t want to go to sleep / pace in circles / talk to myself”) over nervous and naked guitars before exploding in a cascade of frustrated noise after the narrator decides to self medicate to ease the pain (“behold the scythe / it tears a patched quilt of life / let’s spill the medicine and drink down good night”). The musically similar “80 Percent” (a song that provides an imaginary soundtrack opening for a short story I wrote: Kim the Waitress) powerfully addresses regret over a failed relationship with some serious self realization (“but I know an assurance of perpetual love was quite impossible / when only 80 percent of what she wants can I fulfill”). I’m not sure what it is, but I seem to be drawn to emotionally devastating songs, but their impact on me often is increased in a punk rock framework. Maybe it helps to swallow the rough message when it’s combined with some sense of release. The busy “My Eyes” arches and races through it’s tempo, but still smacks you across the face with a scene of inner turmoil for the narrator as he encounters someone who has used him, but he still yearns for their love (“my soul’s been yours to lose / my feelings fall to you / so what will you do? / I want to see you all the time”), while the wistful and dreamy “Crazy” finds joy with the early stages of a relationship (“I have lost all control of my heart of which you stole”). The powerful short story inside of the “Celebrated Summer”-like “Porch” seems to introduce us to some lifelong friends who are ready to embark on their life’s travels (“and the world spins on axis with little assurance for us all / but the steps between our home and the cold world bridge each day in time”), while the hard charging “Ruptured Seam” allows some real catharsis within its ranting toward breakdown in two minutes. This album is not all deadly serious. The opening instrumental “Sculpture” eases us into the odd “Gordon Johnson.” I’m not sure who he is, but according to the song “he blows.” Also, “Inga” opens with hysterical psychotic sounding laughter before merging into an atmospheric instrumental roll with haunting vocals expressing a longing for an inflatable doll. There are also two fine covers of two influential bands: Wire’s comeback song “Ahead” (1987) and a drastic reworking of Minor Threat’s “Salad Days” (1985). I could go on and on, but I will take a breath and relent. This is an amazing album that has been virtually unnoticed from its time of release and especially since, which is a tragedy. I am not doing it much justice here, but I urge you to give this short-lived band a try via their one time label No Idea Records. You can track down Done here and All We Need of Hell here.

Spoke "Letter to Hope"

Ache

Last year, I had planned on doing a continuing series of pieces about old favorite albums or forgotten albums and simply overlooked albums (started as seen here on Lacquer by Swedish band Popsicle). It was to be a chance to reflect on the times when those records impacted my life and how they did and continue to do so. I spend so much time focusing on what’s coming up next that it’s nice to stop and realize that I have a pretty cool collection of music sitting all around me that I can get lost in and maybe never return from. I had also hoped to get others involved and hear thoughts and anecdotes involving their own lost favorites, etc. or from those affected as I have been by music in order to break up the monotony of my terrible collection of adjectives and anecdotes. Unsurprisingly, this never really took off. However, after the complete mind dump that has been the annual end of year Top 40 list that I have continued to do for no apparent reason, I’ve decided to try and give this whole expressing a love for music thing another go. But it will not start with this one. Instead, I have decided to restart by writing about a band that has eluded me in many ways over the years: Jawbreaker. This Bay Area band was a huge one for me – probably my favorite from about 1990 till 1995. They came along with their heartfelt proletariat songs of love and drunkenness during the time I was leaving home and High School and bound for college and an attempt at independence, so their music and words captured and romanticized the life I was kind of living.

I first encountered Jawbreaker in 1989 when I picked up Volume 2 of Shredder Records’ Worlds in Shreds series of singles from the much missed Blacklist Mail Order (where one could buy punk influenced records at incredibly cheap rates) and the love affair continued until they eventually split after four powerful, yet completely different albums. Why were they always so elusive to me? I’m not sure. It was partly due to the inspiration of their music that I was driven to start writing about music and starting a ‘zine (the short lived This Wreckage described here: This is Our Emergency – hell, even the first two entries on this site are pieces named after Jawbreaker songs: Accident Prone and Jinx Removing). In fact, after their epic second album Bivouac dominated my world during the entirety of 1993 (it was the first album I bought in January of that year to guide me through another surgery recovery), I found myself on the ninth handwritten page of a review of it as my #1 pick for that year. While writing a long description of a reoccurring dream I used to have about being buried alive and somehow relating that to their song “Face Down,” I stood up, wadded the entire thing up and tossed it in the trash. I didn’t write about music or anything at all again for another four or five years. It was simply too much. For some reason, whenever I try to write about Jawbreaker’s music, my mind collapses in on itself. I get tangled up and cannot fathom a way to express the deeply personal tie I have with so many of their songs, which is confusing considering the relatable and immaculately poetic lyrics of vocalist/guitarist Blake Schwarzenbach. I have never been able to quite put into words how much a song like “Ache” (from 1994’s 24 Hour Revenge Therapy) helped carry me through a long dark period of pining for a lost love (“lean your head on mine like you used to / I don’t mind if you’re faking it”), or how the rough hewn downtown asphalt soundscape of songs like “Kiss the Bottle,” “Chesterfield King,” and “Sea Foam Green” bring alive the wistful and dramatic times of finding ones’ foothold in life. None of the words I write about the band feel like they’re worth the time wasted putting them down, and then I expand that to everything else I’ve ever written and then it leads to a complete shut down. It has always been incredibly frustrating to feel inspired to write when hearing their music, but losing the meager ability that I have to do so. And this is where I’ve found myself lately, which reminds me of that fateful day or two where I attempted to write the definitive synopsis of Bivouac back in December of 1993.

My first thought, when I decided to make a stab at writing about Jawbreaker again brought me to 1992’s Chesterfield King EP, which I bought while living in Seattle. I’ll never forget the day I bought it. The day prior I had collected a paycheck for one day’s worth of work at a terrible mall record store, before deciding that I’d rather starve than to work in such an environment (a pattern that repeated itself frequently during my short stint in that city), so I had a few dollars in my wallet. I was woken up by the monthly visit from the pest control people as they had stormed uninvited into my studio to spray unknown chemicals into the corners of my room, before wordlessly exiting. Since I was awake, and the sun was out, I decided to throw on some clothes and take advantage of that money and walk up the street to the old Crocodile Records just off of Mercer near the Seattle Center. That day I found the debut self-titled Swans EP from 1982 and the brand new Jawbreaker EP both on vinyl. It was such a surprise and I had just enough cash. “Chesterfield King” was everything I could’ve ever hoped for after wearing their debut Unfun out and having to buy the then newly released version on CD. The band had retained their loose and gritty punk inflected music, but now had introduced a much stronger personal edge to the lyrics. But it is “Tour Song,” the second track, a catchy slice of life on the road, which reminds me of the other reason they have always frustrated me. While the opening lines of the song provide all one needs to know about driving across country in a van with no money to promote their music (“Seven hundred miles to play to fifteen angry men / I need some sleep”), I cannot help but stop and smile thinking about all of the times that Jawbreaker cancelled shows on me and my friends. Every time I was aware of them playing locally (and by “locally,” I mean within a couple hundred miles) and tried to go, we would be presented with a closed venue and news that the show had been cancelled. It wasn’t until 1995 when they played at Portland State University, of all places, that we all actually managed to see them perform and that show was cut short (literally cut short, as the plug was pulled on them mid song mid set) due to an enforcement of a noise ordinance. “Every little thing must go wrong” indeed.

So, that is it. That is my way of side stepping actually writing with any detail about Jawbreaker’s music, while recommending their music. They have been like an old friend who has seen me through my worst and celebrated with me through a few triumphs, and like the boat from their song "The Boat Dreams from the Hill," I hope to "begin again" one day and maybe find the writing voice or inspiration that I once believed would come to me.

I highly recommend all of their albums. They are all fairly easily attainable nowadays (unlike then). Former drummer, Adam Pfahler, has thankfully been reissuing their albums on his own Blackball Records over the last few years with great care. Please seek them out and experience them for yourself, if you haven’t already done so.

Don't Disappoint Us Now

Shame inevitably floods my face when I am reminded of the time I was at the remarkable Ooze Records off of Burnside In SW Portland with Jeff during some random escape from school during the spring term of 1990. Sometimes we would take the two hour bus trek from Forest Grove into Portland just to find some sense of civilization despite our lack of money and the dreaded four hour round trip journey. It was on this particular day, when I was flipping through the strange dangling red rack filled with CD covers representing their stock. This was when there were actually record stores and when those record stores mainly displayed vinyl, while the CDs were often kept behind the counter to prevent shoplifting. Yes, CDs were still that strange and special. At any rate, when I reached the J’s, I ran across a Goddamn import copy of Factory Records’ first posthumous Joy Division release Still actually and finally on CD! It had not previously been available on CD at all. All I had was a terrible used copy of the double LP, and yet, here it was all pretty and shiny and new for only $20! My heart began to race, I started to shake, and sweat spread across my forehead, because I only had $10 on me and really no hope of getting my hands on any money in the near future. My thoughts became frantic in an unhealthy way, where I became certain that this was indeed the only copy of this collection that I would ever find on this resilient format (which, of course, would be forever). I held the cover in my hand and tapped Jeff on the shoulder with it. He responded with a ‘too bad it is $20’ shrug and a look of concern for my health – maybe wondering if I was having a stroke or a heart attack. I wandered over to the girl, who I think owned the store, or was at least always there, and inquired about the possibility of laying it away like some piece of expensive furniture at a department store. Maybe I was going to sell myself on the street for some extra scratch just so I could get that damn CD (of which I already owned almost every song on CD from the Substance compilation released in 1988!!!). She smiled at me incredulously, and appropriately didn’t respond with anything more than a negative nod. Sadly, I had to return the cover to its place on the rack and hurry back to the bus before our transfers expired, with no hope of securing that CD any time in the near future.

What’s sadder is that I did make it back eventually and purchased that CD early in the summer of ’90, when I then ran across The Go-Betweens’ second album Before Hollywood on CD for the first time and up to that point I had only read about its amazing delicacies previously, so it was especially needed. The entire breakdown happened all over again. Luckily, this time, I had been working my summer job and was able to afford the second expensive disc.

Is this a sign of simple rampant consumerism? Is this a case of a spoiled kid who never grew past the stage of believing that all of my wants need to be taken care of immediately, or else a tantrum will be thrown? Well, yes, but I am not that way with anything else in my life and I don’t really understand any of it. Much of the time, when I think about it, I try to get rid of stuff. I know my tendency to collect “things” that I love, so I try not to do that – except with music.

For the last year or more, I’ve been questioning my motivations behind almost everything that I do. These little queries have reared their ugly heads on this blog before - going back to the previous unfocused malaise entry from January (seen here: 100 Resolutions) and as long ago as January of 2012 (seen here: This is Our Emergency) and yet I still find myself pretty lost as to why I do what I do. Maybe it’s my middle age crisis happening for the umpteenth time. Why do I write and feel compelled to share what I write? Why do I have more in common with people with illicit addictions, when it comes to music, than I would ever really want to believe?

When it comes to music, people often assume that I am a musician, when they learn of my passion for it. This is so far from reality that it’s laughable. I have not been blessed with any kind of aptitude. I have tried to play different instruments half-heartedly over the years and have taken a stab at writing song lyrics, but it has always been terrible at best. So, in my little way, I have tried to be the best audience member I can be. I try to support the artists I appreciate by actually buying their music (often directly from the source), attending shows when they come through town, by sharing their music with friends via mix tapes and CDs. In fact, I still do these things.

When I started college, the aforementioned Jeff and I forced our way into a twice weekly radio show on the campus station: KPUR 94.5 FM (“Music with Imagination”) and quickly station management. Though we only had a few listeners each week, we had incredible fun until our enthusiasm petered out come spring time. Fortunately, or unfortunately, a few tapes that were recorded by our friend Marcy still exist today, though we cannot seem to pay anyone to bear to listen to these historical artifacts (most of our friends are too smart, I suppose).

When I left school, Wil and I started our This Wreckage fanzine, allowing me to write about music in an attempt to get involved with music, until that excitement and freshness wore off under the realization that most people don’t have time to pay attention to such nonsense (though I still carry on my meager music musings in this blog with old favorite album pieces and year end best of lists).

Then, it was back to school in Seattle, where I learned about sound engineering, before getting derailed by health issues.

The next step was to start a record label! With no money or any real idea of how to do it, Ox and I found ourselves trying to manufacture, promote and distribute a vinyl single by the magical Buddha on the Moon (find the music here: bandcamp or here: discogs).

Then after years of dormancy, we set out again down the path of “record label” and financed a release by the under heard UK band Decoration (found here: cdbaby or discogs), as well as starting up a fledgling online music retail store under the same name as the label, before the expense and effort became too much to be able to maintain along with full time jobs.

As each of these attempts at getting involved with music have come and gone, I find that, though I’m proud of each experience, had a lot of fun, and do not regret any of it – except not returning to pursue the sound engineering education I had started - none of it really has placed me where I would like to be. Maybe it’s because what I enjoy doing and what I do to make a living never seem to intersect. Maybe I am simply using my love of music to fill in some gaping holes in my life which need to be addressed. Whatever the case may be, I will continue searching and continue to find solace in the music, because that is what seems to make my world go round.