Whichever Way the Wind Blows

Last summer I was introduced to reruns of a show from the early 90s named Tropical Heat, or as it was known in the US, Sweating Bullets – a part of Crimetime After Primetime *.  It was a basic private detective TV show set in on a fictional Florida Key, kind of a Rockford Files updated for the 90s.  I had not previously heard of it.  It took me several episodes to warm to it.  The show was a low budget affair that recycled a lot of actors that are often cringe worthy.  It was clearly a vehicle for fist fighting action and bikini clad women and the shirtless hero, Nick Slaughter, in sunny tropical beach environs.  I became obsessed.  When I first heard the terrible, reggae-lite theme song, all of my sensibilities rejected it, but soon enough, I began watching the opening of the show regularly on YouTube just to listen to the song.

 

Strangely I began to feel wistful while watching these subpar episodes of a show that I couldn’t find anyone who had ever even heard of before.  It reminded me of my late high school years, when I had mostly given up sleep and would find myself getting weepy over a silly plot from The Patty Duke Show at 3AM.  I tried chalking it up to spending too much time alone, but this felt deeper.  I began to feel an emotional attachment to all of it – the main characters, the environment, that awful theme - rivalling long lost happy memories, as one might reflect on a summer fling from a teenage week spent at a fun away camp – déjà vu. 

 All of this felt wrong to me.  Why?  Why was this stupid show getting to me?  Eventually, it dawned on me that I have a history of highly rating superfluous TV shows and movies.  Like the aforementioned Patty Duke Show.  The movie I’ve seen more than any other is the late 70s Chevy Chase/Goldie Hawn vehicle Foul Play, though the original Fletch is a close second.  For years I have claimed that Ski School and its odd sequel, Ski School 2, are my favorite movies ever.  I’ve always said this with a sardonic tongue in my cheek, but knowing full well that I’d rather watch those than a universally acknowledged masterpieces. 

The answer I’ve come up with is that many of these characters, like the misfit ski school hero gang Section 8, Fletch, and Nick Slaughter are all wise cracking goofballs who say and do what they want – consequences be damned.  Of course they all have hearts of gold, but it’s the chaos they create with their honesty and combination of no bullshit and lack of concern for serious consequences that I find so appealing.  In Ski School, the thesis statement of the movie is: “in order to succeed you must lose your mind.”  Rumor has it that there may not have been a script, which would surprise no one who has seen the movie. 

I have lived my life following rules.  I’ve always been wound pretty tight.  One time my friend Wil convinced me to hop the commuter train for a few stops without paying the fare, and the entirety of the trip (<10 minutes), I was sweaty, itchy, and terrified.  Towards the end of our journey a pair of security guards boarded the train and my anxiety about being caught pushed me into a full on panic attack.  I didn’t get drunk or high growing up – not out of any kind of moral or health stance, but for fear of losing control.  This must be why characters who throw caution to the wind have such an appeal for me.  I’m not talking thrill seeking behavior, like skydiving or what not, I’m talking about those who challenge authority, when authority is in the way of justice - whatever that means. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware that these shows and movies I’m referencing are very of their time and incredibly unrealistic.  There can be an uncomfortable level of misogyny, lack of diversity, and of course a prevailing white male privilege – I mean, only a white guy could get away with being such a wise-ass malcontent to the police or any authority and avoid any consequences right?  Newspaper reporter Fletch broke all of the rules AND essentially gives the middle finger to the police chief, Nick Slaughter regularly mocks the local police, the mischief making misfits from Ski School constantly play cruel pranks on essentially everyone and when confronted with possible retribution, simply double down and intensify their wacky pranks and beer consumption.  The only threatened reprimand for their misdeeds is that their skiing privileges will be taken way, so the inevitable conclusion is: “They can’t stop us from partying, so they can’t stop us from skiing.”  I’m also aware that these ridiculous characters would be frustrating in real life.  Whatever charm they may have would burn away the instant that they get you involved in some kind of horrific street fight, or worse. 

After slowly working my way through watching the entirety of the show Tropical Heat, I learned that there had been a documentary made in 2012 named Slaughter Nick for President, which chronicles lead actor Rob Stewart’s visit to Serbia fifteen years after the show’s demise.  Apparently, this show had developed a cult popularity in Serbia during the 1990s civil war in the former Yugoslavia.  It seems that the sunny environs and freewheeling, yet doggedly loyal, lead character, Nick Slaughter, resonated with some of the populace in amongst that country’s darkest days.  I think I managed to tap into this strange idealism in some small way. 

 

Recognizing that I have had a buttoned up fascination with the idea of being more of a risk taker has been valuable.  At this stage of my life, I’ve grown to be content with who I am to a certain level.  I do not want to push the envelope too far and suffer very real consequences from stupid actions – I never have – but now I refuse to feel regret over risks not taken.  Perhaps I can simply enjoy watching these goofy shows, enjoy watching the freedom that these fictional characters exhibit, and do my best to take small leaps every once in a while. 

My refusal to stream movies and be involved with all of the high quality television available today frustrates a lot of people.  I clearly watch way too much TV, but I have little patience for getting involved with something that demands time and attention.  I like my rabbit ears sketchily picking up broadcast channels mostly airing old family friendly reruns and other formulaic shows.  If I can watch Tropical Heat reruns on channel 29.4 most evenings and daydream about being a reckless hero, then you know what?  I’m good with that. 

 

 

 

 

* 

·        In 1991, the CBS television network had abandoned their many failed attempts at competing with NBC’s late night talk show dominance against Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show with similar talk shows hosted by a variety of celebrities.  Instead, they began filling that post late local news programming slot with a bunch of “edgy” hour long crime dramas that they advertised as Crimetime After Primetime.  Other than seeing the occasional promotion for these shows, I never bothered to watch any of them.  They were all unceremoniously canceled after a couple of years, as soon as CBS scored a deal with David Letterman to host a talk show against the Tonight Show.  The only show (I think) that survived was the colorful and titillating cop procedural Silk Stalkings, which moved to the cable channel USA and thrived throughout the entirety of the 90s.  At any rate, back then, I became obsessed with the idea of Crimetime After Primetime and would find any excuse to say it in my best gravelly  and deep announcer voice.  I have a strange memory of practicing the voice alone in a public restroom with especially interesting acoustics and emerging to a couple of mystified onlookers.

 

Ultracopacetic

 

Velocity Girl

Ultracopacetic

(SubPop)

In an attempt to look back to the early 90s without revisionist goggles, I am remembering that with their bright and exciting 7” singles, Velocity Girl had become a favorite band and a reliable go to. I’m pretty sure that I had mail ordered all of their singles as they came out and even splurged to collect their Slumberland Records pillow case.  Once I learned that they were signed to the Pacific Northwest’s own Sub Pop records, I remember being pretty excited.  Strange that I cannot remember how I learned of this information.  I mean nowadays, it’s difficult to not know about the dealings of any music artist one follows, but back then, how did we access this news?  It’s like that strange realization that I used to be able to find various locales, unassisted, just by glancing at an address.  These days, I feel lucky to find the outside without navigation.  At any rate, once Velocity Girl’s debut album, Copacetic, arrived in 1993, it failed to make the expected impact.  Don’t get me wrong, I liked it, but for reasons I could not fully grasp, it didn’t land the same way as their prior work.  The singles, like “Crazy Town” with its undeniably infectious chorus, the cowbell-laden “Pop Loser,” and the rush of “Audrey’s Eyes” are all VG classics.  I’m certain that my attentions, experiences, mild variations in taste, and mood during this time contributed to my lackluster reception and I’m sorry to say that my broken jewel-cased copy got shelved rather rapidly.

 

As a collector of music, I am one of those frustrating (frustrated?) nerds who has fallen into the trap of spending all of my earnings (and more) on every possible release a favorite band or greedy record label presents.  We’re talking those 90s era UK import singles that would include a double CD single (sold separately, though one might have a collector’s case), a 7”, 10”, and 12” single – all with unique B-sides.  Then there are the box sets, best of collections, reissues, and anniversary editions (am I painting a vulgar enough picture yet?) that I would be enticed to collect because there is supposed to be a previously unreleased demo dangling like a carrot there-in.  Like a recovering addict, over the past twenty or so years, I’ve tried incredibly hard to refrain from continuing to fall prey to these urges.

It was with a bit of skepticism that I approached the release of a remixed and remastered version of Copacetic, and yet here it is and here I am whole-heartedly recommending it.  As I said before, there is nothing wrong with the original version, and it is still going to remain intact as is, but the absolute no frills original did not fully capture the special essence of Velocity Girl’s strengths.  One might wonder if, because of the time period where “selling out” was quite possibly the biggest possible sin and career killer in indie music, that the original mix was so dry and frankly uncommercial.  It did not present the warm glow of their catchy melodies, and it smoothed over their dramatic noise dynamics.  Thirty years later, band member, Archie Moore, has remixed the LP and seamlessly adjusted the mix, and it is now the album that I had always wanted!

These subtle changes are evident immediately.  The songs sound like they have more room to breathe.  The powerhouse opener, “Pretty Sister” feels more dynamic with its alternating feedback-laden foot stomping jams and Sarah Shannon’s vocals, which are mildly pushed more upfront throughout.  The title track was always a standout, but here it’s a revelation, while the prior murky “A Chang” has been transformed into an oddly complex juxtaposition between 80s Midwest/DC postpunk and a 4AD Records abstract experimental/atmospheric sound. 

I’m so happy with this release.  This is the Velocity Girl that I originally fell in love with, and not to be missed are the added bonus of the B-sides and session outtakes (so happy to hear the “Warm/Crawl” single again!), along with five songs from their 1993 Peel Sessions.  Cheers to Ultracopacetic!!  This will likely spark a collector nerd relapse.

(https://velocitygirl.bandcamp.com/album/ultracopacetic-copacetic-remixed-and-expanded)

Velocity Girl "Crazy Town"

A Pleasant Journey

 

Copperplate

A Pleasant Journey

(Self-released)

Lauren Grace is Copperplate from Georgia.  Lauren has been busy.  Since May of this year, Copperplate has loaded Bandcamp with three albums with another one due on September 20^th.  I’ll be honest, it’s too much for me.  I am old and incredibly have become even more thick-headed over time, so music takes its time seep through.  When I was younger, I could hear an album once and have pretty much all of the song titles memorized, know a lot of the lyrics, and bizarrely, maybe even the exact length of songs.  Forty years later, I have forgotten all of those things, and struggle to absorb new music.  There is a real danger of me purchasing songs more than once.  I have to be careful!  In the case of Copperplate, I am just now grasping this third digital only collection A Pleasant Journey, and have yet to explore the first two options and am trying to prepare for the upcoming one (Contentment).  From what I’m gathering is that Copperplate is incapable of writing a subpar song.

A Pleasant Journey is definitely in store for those who enjoy dreamy indie pop.  These intimate recordings are full of meticulous cleanly plucked guitar chimes and jangles (hinting at early Ocean Blue), over a hazy base of quiet vocals and other instrumentation.  If pressed to compare, Copperplate lands somewhere between Seattle’s Sea Lemon (especially on the ultra-catchy “Oh Okay,” and its jaunty bass-line) and San Francisco’s Tanikichan.  Lauren has a knack for memorable choruses and I love the guitar work throughout - a sound that instills reflection, and daydreams of rain clouds on the horizon.  “Preoccupy,” has a booming low end that is incredibly appealing, while “Grand Central” ruminates over our limited time lines in a warm way that reminds me of Depeche Mode’s “Here is the House.”

I’m pretty sure that Copperplate can write, record, and mix an entire album of consistent high quality songs faster than I can fully consume them.  Speaking of which, Copperplate has removed the earlier releases from their Bandcamp page, so be sure to check out A Pleasant Journey as quickly as you can, and get ready for the next album in a few weeks! 

(https://copperplatemusic.bandcamp.com/album/a-pleasant-journey)

Copperplate "Preoccupy"

We Should Have Walked But We Ran

For a lot of people, talking about dreams is a deal breaker.  I love dreams.  Even the really dark ones spark a deep wonder in me.  I enjoy hearing about other’s dreams and am fascinated with the mystery of them.  My interest doesn’t go so far as deep diving into trying to interpret them, but it can be an enjoyable conversation.    I’ve never been a good sleeper, but have always been a good dreamer.  After experiencing a couple of creepy in hospital sleep clinics, I’ve been told by the professionals that I do not delve into all of the stages of sleep, but instead only drift into the first stage - a semiconscious state, which can provide incredibly lucid dreams.  Clearly, I have not done a lot of intensive research of this phenomenon, but I can confirm that I do, and always have had vivid and memorable dreams.

A  couple of years ago I stopped working due to medical disability, yet my mind seems to want to continue work, because I continue to frequently have restless dreams involving work, which generally include not being able to accomplish tasks and finding myself overwhelmed.  Because I’m not currently employed these dreams generally are a strange mishmash of many of my previous jobs, which give them an added stress due to their incongruity. 

All through my high school years, which was an unbelievable amount of years ago, I worked at a small town pizza joint.  While working there, my fellow co-workers and I often discussed our shared dreams caused by working long hours there.  It turned out that many of us had similar nightmares about falling behind during the crazy busy stretches.  One that still haunts me is being afraid to fall asleep because of the danger of burning an oven full of pizzas.  Several times, I remember waking up in my bed actually physically trying to use a pizza paddle to remove finished pizzas from my headboard.  Aside from those moments, the job was mostly fun.  The place was run by teenagers and my co-workers were also friends and confidants.  We had our own lingo and our shared experiences made us a tight family of sorts.  Our stripes were made up of bleach stained jeans and rotten sneakers.

I still occasionally dream about that place.  Recently, as usual, I was having a restless night trying to sleep.  I gave up several times, got out of bed, and managed to accomplish some chores and watch TV to try to settle my thoughts before attempting sleep again.  Next thing I knew i was standing with my cane next to that pizza place’s salad bar, which stood across from the beverage bar.  It was all there: the ice packed around a couple of dozen plastic canisters of salad toppings, adorned with kale fronds, both stained with beet juice and dribbles of various dressings freckled with strange rust colored bacon bits.  

The layout of that place consists of two side entrances – one on each side of the restaurant, an upper balcony of booths that run along three quarters of the rectangle that makes up the seating area, an open lower area offers large group sized tables behind the salad bar and beneath the upper level, and it’s designed so that customers order their meal at one counter fronting the open kitchen, and then order beverages at a different counter further into the building.

 

In the dream, my cousin Nikki and her husband Brett (cousin-in-law?), who are successful purveyors of hospitality businesses in Moscow, ID, had purchased this long-time pizzeria and were holding a grand opening of sorts.  They were there near where I was standing, along with three of my old friends/former co-workers: Ken, Eric, and Jamie – all of us filled out and decaying at various stages from age.  Apparently, Sylvester Stallone was sitting in a booth above us, surrounded by a small posse of security.  He was a celebrity guest of honor.  The biggest celebrity invite since Annette Funicello had been a confirmed no show for a high school dance that was held in the restaurant back in 1987.

 

At that point, I noticed that the front counter was empty of customers and the pizza maker and oven runner were folding pizza box flats into their finished state.  They were creating an impossibly tall stack, so that anyone trying to access one to put a finished pizza into will most likely knock the entire stack over.  This had been common practice back in my days of employment.  I decided to go stand at the counter and let the two teenagers know about my approval of their shenanigans.

 

As I approached the counter, the teenage girl who was there to take food orders, kind of made eye contact with me, before ducking down the hallway that takes one to the back are of the restaurant.

“Hey guys!” I stammered loudly, without warning, “Nice job with the Mega-Stack!”  I leaned into my cane with my right hand and waved my uncontrollable left hand in a useless effort to indicate that giant stack of folded pizza boxes.  “Just like we used to do!” I added, for unnecessary emphasis.  I hated every word that I had shouted.

The two guys looked at each other across the work table that divided them, instead of looking back at me, and after a pause, the pizza maker on the right, after a pause, while still maintaining eye contact with the oven guy, replied: “Thank you SIR.  I bet you got some tall stacks back in those days” 

The acerbity in his voice was exactly as it should’ve been and exactly how Ken, Eric, Jamie and I would have responded to such an invasion 30-40 years ago.  I spun slowly around and scooted back towards the small gathering of people standing on the main level below where Sylvester Stallone was holding court.  My cousin Nikki made eye contact with me, and as I approached, she asked me if the two guys had been rude to me, and looked prepared to scold them. 

“Not at all,” I responded.  They treated me, exactly as they should have, I looked back at the kitchen and the oven runner was tossing three pizza cutters into the air over the work table, as the pizza maker shouted out random instructions about how to juggle.

 

Complications

 

Charles approached the looming ancient brick building built like a small cathedral at the end of the sidewalk.  He could feel people moving all around – coming towards him and up from behind.  He felt like he was in the way.  He was sweating, had an intense headache and a sour stomach.  It must’ve been that club sandwich and fries he ate for lunch.  He hadn’t had much of an appetite, but he was taught to clean his plate, so he did.  He stopped his slow meander at the bottom of the old buildings’ stairs.  His face was contorted from the intensity of his upset stomach.  His throat was extremely dry.  Probably from all the salty lunch meat and the greasy fries.  He felt incredibly uneasy and slowly approached the thin metal handrail that steeply shot down the ten or so stairs up to the second floor of the building.  He couldn’t get over how many people were going up and down the stairs with such effortless abandon.  He supposed that they didn’t all feel intensely hungover.  The thing was that he wasn’t hungover either.  He simply felt like it.  He fondly remembered back a year or more to his teenage years when he could consume the most diabolical foods and never get an upset stomach.  He grabbed onto the handrail firmly and used it to pull himself up the first few steps before stopping to rest. 

“Hey there Charells, what’s shakin’?” he heard Senndee from behind.  He looked to his left, and spotted her.  First her feet, her slender legs, and then that blank expression staring at her uplifted phone. 

“Heya Dee,” he mumbled back, leaving behind the notion of asking her why not two D’s in her name.  Senndee was always looking at her phone, but she had zero presence on any social media.  She never responded to texts, so he also wondered what she was doing.  Like with the spelling of her name, he likely would never ask. 

“You look sus Chucky D.”  Senndee was wearing a white hoodie with the hood pulled over her hair.  Only two strands of brunette hair spiraled out from the hood and traced the outline of her face like two limp antennae.  Her hoodie reflected the bright, but overcast sky.  The white light bothered Charles’ eyes, so he focused his attention back to the stairs.  “You coming out later?” 

“Yeah, prolly,” he auto responded.  Senndee was already off up the stairs and into the building.  

Charles shifted his body back to the task at hand of climbing the stairs.  His knuckles were sore from gripping the railing so tight.  He lifted his right leg, which felt heavy like he was wearing a weighted SCUBA flipper.  Once he got his foot on the next step up, he pulled his body up to that level using all of his strength.  His left foot reluctantly followed.  He continued this method until he reached the top of the stairs and the entrance to the building.  He felt like Batman climbing up the side of a building from the goofy old TV show his grandpa used to make him watch.  His grandpa watched the weirdest shows and would laugh and laugh.  Charles never got it.

 

Once the handrail ended, he wasn’t sure how to proceed.  He looked around reluctantly and slowly eased one foot out.  It took all of his concentration to stay upright.  His steps were small and deliberate.  He felt like he had to fight from flopping over to his right.  Fortunately, the lecture was in the first room on the left.  Charles leaned against the door jamb to stabilize his balance before sliding into the first open chair by the doorway. 

Charles felt awful.  He was sweating, nauseous, and dizzy on top of having a stabbing headache.  He was struggling to focus his eyes on anything and all the noise and movement around him felt alarming.  He wondered what was going on.  He focused as hard as he could toward the clock on the wall at the front of the room.  The lecture had begun, but he was completely lost in worry.  He had never felt like this before.  How was he going to treat this?  How was he going to get back to his room?  Lying down would help.  He just needed to get back to his room.

 

+++

 

Charles curled up into a fetal position.  His clothes and shoes remained on.  He pulled a blanket up over his shoulder.  He had stopped by the little market to buy some Alka-Seltzer tablets in order to ease his burning stomach.  He hadn’t used it since he was a kid, and despite remembering not liking to drink the bubbling salty fizz, he also remembered that it took his stomach ache away within about fifteen minutes.  His only other experience with stomach ache medicines had been Pepto Bismol.  He vowed to never try that again.  The only time his mom funneled that gross pink slop down his throat, it wound up multiplying and eventually bubbling up and back out of his nose and throat in violent vomit thrusts.  If that had been the end of it, perhaps his reticence may have been less, but he had to endure that pink ooze expulsion several times.  He wasn’t sure then if he was sick from stomach issues, or because he had ingested the Pepto. 

 

Other than occasionally getting up to stumble to the bathroom, or to guzzle some more Alka Seltzer, Charles spent about 24 hours lying on top of his bed curled up – worried with unease about what mystery ailment he had developed, but also relieved because at least he felt a little better immobile.

 

+++

 

“What’s going on with you, Charlie?” Senndee deadpanned, as she placed herself directly in front of Charles’ position sitting on the brick ledge of the planters that make up the small public square.  

Charles looked up at her with squinted eyes and groaned an almost unintelligible “I don’t know.”  He hadn’t spoken in a long time.  He was surprised at the effort it took.  “I just feel awful.” 

“You look awful,” Senndee smiled at this, because it was an inside joke between them about how awful he generally looked and how many people felt comfortable voicing this observation to him.  She liked to reinforce that notion, because it seemed so absurd, yet she had observed it several times. “You never showed up last night.  I got worried,” she said flatly showing no sign of concern. 

“I can’t walk straight and I feel like I’m going to throw up!” Charles exclaimed, trying as hard as he could not to sound like he was complaining, even though he was complaining.  He put his face in his hands and began pressing hard on his forehead with his fingertips.  Doing this offered momentary relief.

Senndee tapped rapidly at her phone, bent over at her waist, locked her right hand around one of Charles’s wrists and tugged at it – pulling it away from his face.  “C’Mon, I’m taking you to the ER.” 

Charles got to his feet, but felt stuck to the ground – his feet weren’t cooperating.  He did not understand what was going on.  “I don’t need to go to Emergency!  This will go away, he protested,” but allowed her to pull him into the direction of the student parking lot – his feet slapping the sidewalk awkwardly as he struggled to keep up and upright.

 

+++

  

Senndee led Charles to the center of the north parking lot, as an old beat up blue two door sports car rumbled into place in front of them.  It creakily lurched into position and after a loud slap of the seatbelt hitting the door, a guy wearing a tuxedo t-shirt emerged and leaned his forearms onto the roof pf the car.

“Heya Steve,” this guy needs to get to the ER stat,” Senndee stated with uncharacteristic urgency.  “Can you get him there?”

“Yes, of course!  It’s only about a mile,” he replied, before asking Senndee if she was be having lunch on the campus later.

Senndee directed Charles into the passenger seat of the old car.  “Uh yeah, probably,” she hesitated.  “Thanks for doing this!”

 

Moments later, Steve roughly shifted into third gear and turned onto Main Street, which would get them to the hospital.  Charles was pretty certain that he had seen Steve around campus a few times, and with his unkempt scruffy facial hair, pony tail and glasses, and had reminded him of the comic book guy from The Simpsons.  This was not unusual however, because Charles thought this an apt description of a lot of guys – likely a hazard of being a lot like comic book guy himself, and not wanting to embrace that identity and look down his nose at people that don’t know useless trivia about superfluous stuff, so he looked down his nose at other comic book guys.  “Thanks for doing this.  I’m not sure I need this, but Senndee insisted.” 

“No problem,” Steve waived him off, “I’ll do anything for Senndee.”   Steve pulled into the parking lot and approached the ER entrance, “do you need help getting in?” Steve offered, but Charles could tell that he didn’t want to get out again.

 

“No, that’s okay, thanks again,” Charles hurriedly climbed out and steadied himself for the thirty or so foot walk to the admitting desk inside the entrance.  He tilted his head to the left to offset the feeling that he was about to fall to the right and stumbled his way through the automatic doorway all the way to the front desk like he was trying to get across a slippery sheet of ice. 

“Can I help you?” he heard, as he glanced around the room.  Struggling to focus.

“I think I need help.  I’m having difficulty walking and I’m seriously sick to my stomach.”

 

+++ 

“Charles?” A voice called out his name – startling him.  Light was waning from what he could see outside.  He had been in the ER waiting area for what seemed like hours.  He had turned off his phone a few days prior – not wanting to be tempted to look up his symptoms and freak out even more than he already was.  He had already decided that this awful feeling was now how he would always feel going forward.  This notion was daunting enough.

He handed the clipboard full of forms to the woman wearing light blue scrubs who had called his name.  He dropped the pen and quickly dipped his head on his way to retrieve it and promptly fell over.  Aside from his broken pride, he felt nothing other than a disorientation like he had never experienced before.  His eyes were still seeing the waiting area from a standing position, but his body was instructing him that he was on a dirty threadbare floor.

“That’s alright, I’ll get the pen,” she instructed as she bent over and easily grabbed the pen.  Charles continued to thrash around on the floor trying to get his bearings.  She looped her arm around one of his, leaned into him with her hip, placed her other arm around his torso and easily lifted him back to his feet.

“Wow!  Thanks!  That was amazing!”  He blurted out with an enthusiasm that brought stares from everyone in the waiting area – including the security guards.

The nurse in scrubs kept her arm around his waist and guided Charles down a dimly lit hallway that was framed by heavy plastic curtains instead of walls.  He surmised that these curtains were partitions for temporary exam rooms in an effort to meet increased demand for emergency care.  They stopped and with her other arm she pulled at a curtain opening up a gap to create an entrance into one of these rooms.  Charles could hear hushed voices all around him.  “Go ahead and sit on the bed,” she indicated as she wheeled over a pole with a blood pressure cuff dangling from it. 

“How has your day been?”  Charles tried to make small talk, as she finished her preliminary examination. 

“Busy,” she responded quickly, before instructing him to take off his clothes and put on the gown folded on the bed next to him.  “The doctor will be in shortly,” and with that the curtain was pulled shut and he was alone – sort of.  

He struggled putting the gown on over his shoulders.  His hands were not cooperating as he tried to tie the two sets of strands of the open back of the hospital gown.  He noticed that he was breathing incredibly hard, so he focused on slowing down his breath before re-addressing his efforts to tie the gown in place.  He reminded himself that there was clearly no hurry.  Once he managed to get the gown in place, he laid back on the gurney and closed his eyes. 

Despite only being separated by curtains, and being fully aware that there were people all around him, he noticed a hush envelop him, as well as a strange calm.  The calm would be interrupted occasionally by beeping IV’s, moaning patients, and the voices of passing medical professionals moving amongst the exam maze.

The initial relaxation melted away as time dragged on.  Charles could feel his patience wearing thin the longer he lay there wondering if they had forgotten him.  Every time he heard voices approaching he steadied himself for the entrance of an actual doctor, or simply an acknowledgement of his existence, but those voices would pass by and fade away.

 Finally, a pair voices from a man and a woman stopped on the other side of the curtain.  He could clearly hear them.  “He’s all checked in” the female voice stated and Charles could hear a shuffling of papers.  “Oh, great, some guy with tummy issues,” the male voice trailed off.   Charles closed his eyes as the curtain opened.

Presence

 

SPECTRES

Presence

(Artoffact)

When I write these little album things, I often struggle to find ways to describe the music involved.  I try to use the tried too much use of comparisons, and it often leaves me uneasy.  First off, though sometimes effective, I often times find comparisons unfair to the artist that I am writing about.  Everyone hears things differently.  I try not to pull out too many obscure references, because those can be meaningless to most potential readers.   As a reader of music reviews myself, I can be turned off by too many unknown references.  I don’t need to know that the writer is so damn hip, plus I often find as an older person that my references are often dated – so much so that the artist I’m writing about may not have been born, while I was bouncing off the walls listening as a teen.

The newest SPECTRES album, Presence, their fifth full length is a refreshing reminder that time is relative and crucial regarding how we all perceive events and how we proceed with decision making for our lives.  The song “Waiting,” which stands as the middle point of this collection, opens with a dramatic musical build up that levels into a melancholic love song.  The beautiful chorus of “Waiting for the sunrise / Waiting for the day / All for your reaction / Your one in a million” can be interpreted as a nice love song, or that “your” instead of “you’re” it feels more like a dissertation about timing.  The juxtaposition of patience versus time.  Can we hold off even knowing that our one n a million chances might be jeopardized?  Time is referenced in almost every song on this album, from the generational struggle inside “The Old Regime,” to the stuck in the past vision of “AM Gold,” to the closing message to take time, take stock and “Start Again.”  Vocalist/lyricist Brian Gustavson provides a lot of thought-provoking words. 

One of the reasons that I say that SPECTRES’ music is refreshing, is because as an old fart, their music makes me feel like a kid again.  Not only do they remind me musically in the most simplistic terms of a remarkable melding of early New Order and Big Country, but they also evoke a wonder at the size of our world, and a belief in possibilities.  They are twenty year veterans who sound like classic 80s post punk, but only discovered recently.  I absolutely adore the variety of Presence.  “Chain Reaction” brings an angry punk energy, while “Real World” sounds like what should be a hugely popular pop song, as well as the yearning quality of the wondrous “One Day.”  The spikey guitars of “AM Gold” sounds like a lost outtake from Big Country’s The Crossing, while “Dominion” evokes early Chameleons with its exciting twin guitar urgency. 

There I went and dragged out a bunch of 40 year old references.  However, SPECTRES are no retro act.  These songs are relevant and current, and really fun to listen to. 

(https://spectresvancouver.bandcamp.com/album/presence)

SPECTRES "AM Gold"

Torrey

 

Torrey

Torrey

(Slumberland) 

I’ve always loved indie pop/rock.  There’s something in its simplicity that I’ve always clung to.  There’s an approachability and vulnerability to the best indie music, as well as that DIY punk rock spirit.  These are songs written and performed by goofballs like me!  Scratch that.  I have no skills, but I sure can appreciate those willing to go for it.  My ears are always drawn to dissonance, when paired with straightforward indie melodies.  At their base, Torrey is an old school indie pop band with over busy drumming, imperfect scratchy/strumming guitars and meandering grinding basslines, but here they’ve added loads of noise – everything from washes of feedback, overloaded retro-sounding keyboards, incredibly upfront and aggressive tambourines.  I think of the cut and paste genius of the Swirlies, the angular bitterness of the Archers of Loaf, or more currently: the most recent Alvvays album and their timeless melodic sensibilities.  There’s a certain ramshackle feeling in this collection that provides an exciting depth and repeated discoveries with additional listens. 

This self-titled second LP from Oakland band Torrey is their first for Slumberland Records and for me.  I have not yet investigated their prior work, but am extremely excited by this release!  To be honest, even though the lyrics are provided for this album, I can’t seem to make sense of them, yet so many of these tracks are incredibly contagious.  The aptly titled “Pop Song,” has a repeated chorus of “A common blue” that has been stuck in my head endlessly for the past several days.  This is not a complaint.  It only makes me want to hear it again, even though I’m not so sure what it all means.

There’s no way that I’ve ever figured out how to describe this, but sometimes certain artists sound more meaningful.  This is incredibly subjective, but I felt these songs upon first listen, even if many of the lyrics have remained elusive to me.  Early favorite, “No Matter How,” is an exception.  I love the repeated bridge refrain of “it will all be okay” landing just before the chorus of “no matter how you wanna spin it.”  I feel like this message hits incredibly well in these days where we are all guilty of spinning our own stories to justify our own means.  I know I’m certainly guilty of this.  I seem to be able to assuage my own bad feelings by spinning my narrative to only positives.  “No, I did nothing wrong!”  It’s a powerful message for a catchy three or so minute song.  The afore-mentioned “Pop Song” is also undeniably addictive, as well as the sweet sounding organ drenched “Bounce” and “Happy You Exist.”  My favorite amongst these highlights though is the haunting “Moving,” which has a similar vibrato vibe as “How Soon is Now?” and a sneaky earworm of a chorus vocalized perfectly by singer Ryann Gonalves that is absolutely breathtaking.

It’s discovering new music like this that I find forever regenerative.  If you’re familiar with pretty much any musical act to ever grace the Slumberland Records label, you will likely love this.  If you’re not familiar, this could be a perfect gateway into a magical world.

(https://torreymusic.bandcamp.com/album/torrey)

Torrey "No Matter How"