Theoretically, by choice and vocation, I am a musician. I am also a bit nerdy and folky, as my choices below will bear out. I pretend to fight the man (hence my mostly indie choices). Here is some new(ish) music that some of you may not have encountered before (except for the Mumfords, who seem to be everywhere). I found most of it on emusic over the past couple of years, which I recommend for inexpensive indie downloads. It is cheaper than the apple conglomerate and has plenty of oddities. I have had fun finding video examples of these groups, some live, some from the albums. I like to think of this as the 2011 equivalent of a mixed tape I might have made back in middle school for my friends... only on the computer, with info links and videos.
Stornoway are a few annoyingly talented young men from the UK. I resent the songwriting ability and clear tenor voice of the lead lad. I also regret missing them when they played the Biltmore here last year. I think Fuel Up is a very true song.
I'm in love with Little Miss Higgins, but she likely doesn't know I am alive. I wonder if she needs a harmonica player.... A wonderful bluesy Canadian woman who writes songs about the Metis? Too late... I'm already married.
Pearl and the Beard are a trio from Brooklyn. I first discovered them because of their Will Smith Medley on youtube... but they are so much more than that. The shape of their sound; the sparse depth of their arrangements, their diverse writing, (not to mention the deliciousness of Jocelyn and Emily)... Well, I just love Pearl and the Beard.
I know almost nothing about Beast except that they thump and rock in an old and new way. I think they're from Quebec. There is nothing about the Mr Hurricane video that I don't love.
Okay... Dan Mangan is a local boy who is now pretty famous. He just sold out the Orpheum. He's so local that the video for Sold was shot in my grocery store down Kingsway. If you have ever tried to write a song, listen to his stuff and feel humbled.
I first heard Timbre Timbre on Rue Morgue Radio (wonderful horror culture, for those who love such things). The eerie minimalism is delightful. Try listening to Demon Host while driving at night on a lonely country road... I dares ya.
I know nothing about Karine Polwart. I stumbled across her on emusic. She is so Scottish, so lilting, so accomplished. Wow. Time to find a family tartan. Is there such a thing as "MacEverett"? I couldn't find any great videos online, so just launch the link below and listen, and close your eyes, and smell the heather.
Blossom Dearie was a magnificent jazz vocalist and pianist. Those my age might remember her singing some of the Schoolhouse Rock songs. She died a couple of years ago and I finally got a few of her tracks. I love this one because it uses words like "bummier" in the lyrics.
I thought I was edgy when I downloaded Mumford & Sons... then I realized that these guys are everywhere. Even mainstream radio (eek!). They are getting a ton of play chez Everett this winter as well.
Bellowhead brings a cast of thousands to it's historically- tinged, folk - jazz assault. I prefer to turn it up and let the prickly, loud, British madness wash over me.
Laura Marling probably wins the prize for most annoyingly talented ridiculously young musician on this list. I think she's 20, or something similarly zygotic. I've been told she sounds like Joni Mitchell, which is fine, but I mostly just hear Laura Marling, and suspect that I'll hear a lot more in the future.
Oh... and don't forget... these guys have made more money this year that all of the above artists on this list will make, combined, in their entire careers. Sorry for the downer.
If you follow this space you’ll find it obvious that I have neglected it. The reason is simple. Lately words have failed me. I have been heard to say, half jokingly, that “nothing is constant in life except change”. Over the past year or so, there's been fundamental change in our lives.
Last December my Mom got very sick. She died two months later. She wasn't quite 67.
Blinding, unanticipated shifts and adjustments have taken place. It's dizzying, really. People outside of the nuclear family note how we are all doing the right things to move forward. I agree, but sometimes I still feel like we are all just jumping around like frogs in a frying pan, trying to be hurt as little as possible, and to land in a better place.
The reminders come in waves and ripples. They often prompt other memories, subconscious or otherwise. They can evoke smiles and tears; priceless anecdotes and honest, deep grief.
Last month I found myself in the preposterous position of having to cross off my Mom's name.
There are pages on file at my son's school for all the family information: addresses, phone numbers, doctors and all that. The handout had come home in the backpack, as it does every September, to be updated. I scanned this page that had been tossed on my desk without really reading it or thinking about it... until my gaze tripped across her name. Aprille Everett: 2nd Emergency Contact.
So I had to update it. I clicked into “less emotional mode”, picked up a pen and crossed off her name. It wasn't until I had done it and replaced my pen that the reality of what I had done hit me. The ninja grief snuck up behind me, as it occasionally does. It was a tangible metaphor for what had happened when she died; the universe had taken a pen and crossed her off, and out, of our lives. This was just one of many blinding, unanticipated shifts and adjustments. I find they serve as launching pads into free association and related recollections.
Thinking about Mom and my son in a school situation led to memories of her picking him up at kindergarten and taking him back to her place every Wednesday for 10 months so I could work extra hours. It was a wonderful time for them. Mom and Dex formed a powerful relationship that year. She spoiled him once a week and just spent time with him. He was so little then. This serves as a launching pad to my own memories of myself, as a little guy, and Mom after school....
I was terrified of bullies in the first grade. Talented bullies can (and do) smell it on you. There was the wintry day in 1970 when I ran home, teary-eyed, snow dripping down my face from having just received what was called a “face-washing” at the hands of some thuggish, mouth-breathing classmate. Mom hurried me inside, worried, and then angered by my tears. She cleaned me up, dried me off, gave me some love and instant cocoa and then demanded the name of the kid who had roughed me up. Then she settled me in to watch Zoom on TV. I could hear her on the phone in the next room talking to the kid's mother. She tore them a new one. Later the boy apologized to me. Thanks, Mom.
Words have failed me in writing about Mom because the topic is so vast and the feelings so deep. I will try to do it, from time to time, now that I have begun.
