Track #2

If it seems as though I've given up on my project, fear not! I've just had an incredibly busy/yucky week-- busy in that I started going to free classes at a local recording studio, and yucky in that I've been sick since Wednesday. It hasn't been one of those "skip school and screw around at home" types of illnesses. It's been more along the lines of me passed out on the couch, exhausting my DVR while coughing up both my lungs into a bowl. So yeah, this week's been a blast.

I am back now, giving my blog a hearty hello (although I don't get anything in return because nobody ever leaves me any pretty comments) and continuing what I said I'd do. So now, I post the second track off Youth and Young Manhood, titled Happy Alone, in Youtube form.






It's a swell video. Shot in a studio in London, in 2003, when the boys were still grungy, young and manic, this high quality video gives a glimpse of the boys when they were unknown nobodies, just starting out on the road. In fact this era of Kings of Leon is still relatively unknown to those individuals who only know them by "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody." Sure, now the boys are becoming megastars, and though anyone listening to the Top 40 could claim to be familiar with KOL, it doesn't mean they remember where it all started.

The Kings began in Nashville, with Caleb and Nathan, who had moved away from their preacher father and were trying to make it with music. They had to call up their sixteen year old brother Jared and the not-much-older cousin Matthew to help out, but in making it, they succeeded. And then the boys started making the nasty rebellious country-rock that dominated Youth and Young Manhood.

Happy Alone fits right in at spot number two. It's got that chugging groove and the sleazy lyrics and the rawness of a band that's just come together (they really just had; I believe a few instruments had to be studied and learned before the band really took off). It alerts the listener that the sexiness/borderline raunchiness isn't going to disappear and that a testosterone tsunami is going to be unleashed in the next nine tracks (if you count Caleb singing about dancing around in high heels and cherry-red lipstick as manly). Regardless, it sure brings on a load of excitement.

Give this track a listen. It embodies the spirit of KOL back when, before all the fans who originally purchased this album and listened to this song 806 times began whining about Only By the Night. We get it. They sound different now. But I dare you to listen to Revelry, Manhattan and especially Cold Desert, and argue with me that these aren't gorgeous, chilled-out southern-rock grooves Caleb wails to in that drawl of his (and I say especially Cold Desert, because that must be the saddest, chillest, wailing, lazy groove). What am I getting at, you ask? Shush and appreciate, please. I love these fellas.

New Project

Back in 2003, a little band by the name of Kings of Leon dropped their first album and made their presence known to the world. I, at the time, was eleven, so their presence was still unknown to me as I was likely listening to Avril Lavigne or some other atrocity. But I caught on eventually and fell in love with the band of brothers and that cousin of theirs, along with the four albums they've released to date. Looking back, though, it is surprising how I first regarded Youth and Young Manhood, the stellar debut from the boys; I was indifferent. It didn't rub me the wrong way but I didn't fall in love with it either-- not upon the first listen anyways. Now it has grown on me so much that it's made its way into my top 5 CD rotation, a coveted spot all the CDs in my car WISH they could be in. And nothing is better than driving down the road singing in your best "Caleb voice" to Joe's Head. Nothing.

I come to you now, ready and willing, if not eager, if not frothing at the mouth, to share with you Youth and Young Manhood. This is when the boys were hairy; before they were superstars screaming about fiery sex; before they played The Today Show; before they grew up. I still love them now, but oh my, were they hot when they first started out (in the musical sense.. though in the physical sense, as well). So, I'm going to scour youtube (my favorite hobby) and find, track by track, the best live performances of these songs. It'll be fun. And it will help me kill so much time I could spend doing something progressive. But here goes...


Everybody loves Jools Holland.



Red Morning Light is the staunch, dirty, southern, energetic opener and a classic example of the boys' style 6 years ago; Caleb's mumbling and growling almost incoherently through the lyrics, not allowing you to hear how dirty they really are; Jared's about 16 and always seem to be brimming with energy and excitement; Matthew gives facemelting solos; Nathan's singing just as heartily as Caleb in his southern drawl. The boys were brand new to bandhood-- it seems that Matthew was a little rusty on guitar, and Jared didn't even know how to play bass, yet they certainly came together pretty quickly. The haphazardness of their Youth and Young Manhood songs only add to the excitement, really, and these songs really wouldn't work if they were clean. I mean, Caleb's talking about an individual who "couldn't take it on the tightrope, no you had to take it on the side," and then they apparently give all their cinnamon away. You can't see that music being crystal clear and snazzy and sharp; although they are pretty sharp, in the sense that their music is so tight (seriously, they are amazing amazing amazing live performers... and I would like to see them sometime SOON).

So please, take some time, watch this three minute segment; remember this is only a sample for there is much more dirtyness yet to come.

not having followers

Eeek, the good thing about having no followers on this blog is being able to log on the next day and fix all that was appalling about my grammar the night before. Edit, edit, edit.

New Sleep Schedule

It is September- that time of the year when you sharpen your pencils and organize your folders and head back to school (if you happen to be a student). One of the many unfortunate things about the new school year is that I can't be up, say on a Wednesday night at 3:42 am, internet browsing. This is due to the fact that I must pry my eyes open and detach myself from my wonderful bed at 6:20 in the morning in order to get ready for the day. Basically, my browsing sessions are now limited to the weekends.

Tonight, I'm checking out songs from my favorite new guy who happens to be covering my favorite classic guy. I am listening to two renditions of It Ain't Me Babe, interpreted by Robin Pecknold and penned by Bob Dylan. The first is a recording that Robin put together (with majestic voices from above, whatever it is that you believe above to be) under his pseudonym "White Antelope." Accompanied by only a guitar, he fills the song with what I am guessing are three swirling vocal harmonies, but he's captured such an echo-y sound that it makes sense to think that there are thirteen Robin Pecknold voices stuffed into that song. All is breathtaking until you come to the chorus and hear the "no, no, no!" part that Dylan is well-known for shouting; well, Robin's done his own wacky version of these three words. At first, you think maybe he's out of tune. Maybe his falsetto quivers during this part. Maybe the chords were harmonized wrong. But all the choruses are sung the same. So I started to wonder if this was maybe a homage to Dylan's wild vocal contortions at this part of the song. Or maybe Robin just decided to pen a funky chord here, to make it interesting. There's no arguing that it doesn't stand out. The oddness even grows on you; "no, no, no!", that point where you're violently pushing the subject of the song away, almost sounds manic, so I guess that the climax of the song is indeed delivered.

Here is the vid- scroll for the next.






What I then listened to was an apparently live version (according to youtube) that occurred at a BBC session. Robin again performed solo, yet this version was much more true to the original; though I do recognize that his throat cannot emit 2 pitches at once. It is a lovely cover; there is no doubt that he can sing perfectly in tune, and the cover is a bit more subdued than his recorded version. Nothing sounds frenzied during the chorus, only tired.






It was actually Robin Pecknold's love for Bob Dylan that posessed me pick up Freewheelin', The Times They Are A-Changin', and Bringing it All Back Home while walking through my local Border's. Back when Robin was briefly a Twitterer (the only reason I joined and remained on Twitter for around 3-4 months) he would rant and rave about his favorite artists, including Dylan. I remember one time when he linked to a duet of Joan and Bob singing It Ain't Me Babe and stating how he loved It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding. This prompted me to check out both Dylan and Baez and fueled me on my journey of going broke buying old CDs.

People often ask why I got so into Dylan, because now I rant and rave about him, and I even got the chance to see him in August. To these questions, I rarely respond. I feel like such a stalker talking about how I, well, stalked Robin Pecknold's twitter for several months and ended up enjoying what he recommended. I feel as though I may be accused of liking what the frontman of my favorite band likes just because he is the frontman of my favorite band. Twitter also just made me feel so skeeved out; it's purpose really is to just "follow" (stalk) celebrities. It must have made Robin feel skeeved as well because he promptly quit one day, later joining under a new account only for a select number of family and friends (and this is when I quit, because I really WAS stalking the guy.. oh no..). But I'll still be grateful and always remember how it was a person I idolize who turned me onto another person I idolize. I'm not going to say it changed my life because that phrase always sounds so cheesy to me, but music does touch you in ways that are indescribable. Bob Dylan's music certainly did this for me, shortly after the much younger artists of Fleet Foxes had. And somehow, I've seen Dylan live before my introducer, though I would very much like to get a move-on on seeing the latter. Fleet Foxes have got to come back from Europe, first.

And so I leave you with this.





*EDIT: Oh man, copyright laws, you tear at my heart. Why must you take down my favorite videos? Well, I'll post two more that will more than make up for what's missing.









Oh Mr. Dylan, you're a wonder. How do you reinterpret YOUR OWN SONGS so successfully? Excuse me while I gush.

Expanding on my assessment

Have you ever played to an audience before? Have you ever tried to recreate a song for tens, hundreds, or thousands of individuals sitting in the dark room in front of you?



It is terrifying. It is not like recorded music; you cannot make it perfect and consider yourself done, because live music is not that simple. Live music is a beast of its own; you can drill and drill and drill and yet it well never reach the level of perfection you want it to be at. It will never sound like the recording you are attempting to embody, and it will never leave you one-hundred percent satisfied. You will always nervously scan the audience after the performance is finished, searching their eyes for judgement and dissatisfaction. The feeling is as if you have just plummeted through the floor yet your stomach has remained in your chair, left to fend for itself. It's not pleasant.



Sure, you experience that rush of excitement when you hit all the right notes in a sixteenth-note run; when you nail the syncopation; when you and your partner play in unison and in tune; and then you fudge one accidental, which ruins the whole night for you.



Is it crazy that performers are so hard on themselves? Surely it would be more crazy if they weren't; how can anybody be pleased after the ordeal that is a live show? The night is a tight knot of stress, anxiety, frustration, and sweat that remains with you for those thirty to forty-five minutes. The only thing to look forward to is the surprise that someone actually enjoyed the show; that somebody actually connected and applauded and smiled at you. Somebody actually came up and shook your hand, congratulated you and left pleased. And yet performers are at home the next day, drilling and drilling and drilling.

I don't know how music could ever get recorded, what with musicians being such perfectionists. I guess that's why it takes years for a new album to become complete. All that fine-tuning must be agony. But it would also be quite satisfying, to achieve exactly what you are envisioning. It's entirely different from that dark world where pairs of eyeballs stare at you across a dimly lit room. It's just you- your band mates- your producer- and your equipment. Don't worry, nobody's watching. We're here all day. You can have as many takes as you want. Don't sweat it if it's not perfect just yet. We can fine tune it until it sounds TOO good.

Recorded music is a completely separate being from the world of live music. It's perfection in 10 to 14 tracks. It's a beautiful story told from beginning to end through an album. So why do we still insist on seeing our favorite musicians perform live? We have all we need. We have all the songs they will play for us at the show on our CDs, our vinyl, our iPods, our computers, our internet... what more are they going to give us?

I must say, I simply believe us consumers are a cruel brand of individuals. I know that whenever I see a show, the biggest criteria I judge is if they put on a good live performance. Does it sound like the record? Is the band in sync as well as in tune? Can they pull off the solo note for note, beat for beat? Will they add in anything that wows me? Will they blow me away? Will I still love them after this?

We put a lot of stock into our favorite musicians, artists, performers and bands. We want them to succeed, but not for them: for us. If they fail, our taste has failed. We will no longer see them in the same light. We will be disappointed. While this can turn unfortunate, it does serve the purpose of adding the element of sheer excitement to a show. If the artists CAN wow us, if they CAN pull off anything and more, well, then we're screaming at the top of our lungs. We're going hysterical. We can't believe it. It's extraordinary; out of this world; an impossible feat. This intensity is what we go to see. We want to be exhilarated in a way that only live shows can exhilarate us.

The consumer needs this excitement to keep pulling them to a concert. The musician needs the consumers to keep buying their recordings so they can continue to escape to the world of musical perfection. The concerts need to happen to convince the consumer that this is an artist worthy of their support. The circle goes 'round and 'round, leaving the consumer the judge and the musician beggar. Each night, the lights go off and the spotlight appears-- the musician takes his or her place, looks into the darkness, and prays that they hit each cruel sharp that was added in the bridge; that their voice doesn't crack when they aim for that reach; that they don't come off as too nervous, even though their palms are too sweaty to hold their instruments steady; and that finally, the crowd is actually congratulatory and leaves for home with a smile plastered upon their face, now truly pleased that their music choice has been justified.

An assessment of my time here, so far.

At this point and time, the wall I have been blogging to has likely realized that I'm a bit of a music nut (if walls can come to realizations such as this one). Well, if it has, it is correct, and if it has not, it must be a very thick wall.

It is true. Music is my favorite hobby, for a lack of a better word, because it is a hobby I hold near and dear to me and could not imagine living without. I wake up to music. I get ready for the day with music. It's my favorite part about driving. I spend all day with songs and melodies flowing through my head while I eagerly await the time I can get away and listen to more of it.

Music has such a powerful attraction. Even if a person knows zilch about music, they will still find a small pebble of entertainment in the larger work. Understanding it, however, is an entirely different matter.

Music is complex. How could it not be? Musicians need to create a parallel between themselves and the song; they must transfer an element of immense importance into music, whether the element is important solely to themselves or important to the whole world. This is a talent which cannot be learned; otherwise the performance is fake, copycat, or a joke.

This is why I believe the art of music is so special; it requires work from both sides. Yes, the artists works immeasurably hard in order to create their masterpieces, but the listener has to put in the work of listening and relating to them. It's no secret that the listeners get the easy job. We are the consumers, while the musicians must provide.

I'm grateful for every single provision I've ever come across, and take solace in the fact that they will always be there for me. Recorded songs never change. Every listen is exactly the same as the first time it was heard, and offers the same elements each time. Whenever I need to listen to a song that makes me feel a certain way, I can find it time and time again. Yet the magic of songs is that even though every listen is identical, the experience is still fluid. New elements can appear upon the third, fourth, or seventieth listen; new meanings can be discovered, new feelings come forth, new experiences can be made. Though even as the song evolves, there will always be that coziness, that familiarity, that nostalgia. It will always be there to do what you want it to, and that is a great offering that can never disappear.