Erik Jourgensen hails from Sacramento, placing him not far from the folk Central Valley semi-scene of Scott Bartenhagen and Micol Cazzell. In the opening moments of Jourgensen’s “Interzone,” the song’s blinking guitars nod in their direction — then it bursts into full-on bedroom pop, a lo-fi whirl of programmed drums and major-key lead riffs. But when he sings, “We could go home,” he sounds like a Northern Californian once again, evoking another local four-tracker: Modesto’s own Jason Lytle of Grandaddy. Zone in above.
Another day, another heart-stopping outdoor performance by Little Scream. A nice compliment to her Southern Souls session and that Work Drugs remix. Laurel and the gang play the Satellite on Nov. 16.
Since its 2003 release, Tommy Wiseau’s cinematic opus The Room has become our generation’s answer to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Entertainment Weekly called it the “Citizen Kane of bad movies”; the inscrutable Wiseau, who starred, scripted, directed and produced the film, has been hailed as a “genius-savant” by Salon; there may yet be a national plastic shortage from the countless spoons thrown at midnight screenings across the country during audience-favorite lines such as “You are tearing me apart, Lisa!” But what if I told you that Wiseau’s cult car crash was in fact an elaborate tribute to an Oscar-nominated Hollywood landmark? Because it totally is! I happened to see 1955 classic Rebel Without a Cause at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery’s Cinespia screening recently, and, well, the facts don’t lie:
“You are tearing me apart, Lisa!” – Many writers and critics have noticed that The Room’s most celebrated line appears in Rebel Without a Cause’s first act, as Jim (James Dean) lashes out at his baffled parents (video). It’s even the same shot—close in on Dean, his hands raised and voice anguished. Without the “Lisa,” of course. But the comparisons don’t end there. Read the rest of this entry »
Of all the promising “Big” bands going around these days — Big Troubles, Big Moves — Big Deal are the simplest. “Chair,” like all their songs, is just voices and guitars; that’s all it needs. The chord palimpsest of the band’s electric and acoustic strumming is big and bold enough to account for the missing rhythm section, but it’s the vocals that kill you. “Only want me for my lungs / only want me for the songs I write about you,” Kacey Underwood and Alice Costelloe sing in careful harmony. “Because I like you.” No frills and no melodrama here, just feelings striving to be understood. The band’s debut, Lights Out, is full of music like this, songs about young love that don’t try too hard or feign not trying at all, songs that just work. Not the world’s biggest deal, maybe, but surely a good one.
This is as amazing as you think it’s going to be. After the jump, a considerably more serious clip of his recent performance of 29 mega-jam “Carolina Rain” on BBC4′s Songwriters’ Circle. Read the rest of this entry »
I post about one remix a year on Rawkblog (still a jam: Jens Lekman’s reworking of “Shadows”), so, 2011, this is it: Little Scream’s staggering “The Heron and the Fox” reimagined as the ’80s Stevie Nicks daydream it was always meant to be. Who wants to go rent a yacht?
For all the chatter over the state of music discovery lately (Jim, preach!), some things never change: your favorite bands have favorite bands. I looked up ‘80s underdogs Felt entirely on the recommendation of The Clientele, hoping to find an antecedent to the London band’s spectral folk-rock. In Forever Breathes The Lonely Word, I got something else – a missing link between New Wave and the birth of the twee movement.
The 1986 album, the Birmingham band’s sixth in as many years, was released just a year before the launch of Sarah Records and within months of The Smith’s The Queen Is Dead, both touchstones in Felt’s sound. Like their colleagues in The Smiths and, to a lesser extent, The Church, Felt’s music is founded on layered guitar melodies of varying bombast backed by glimmering chords, a template later further simplified and embraced by a generation or two of indie-pop acts. While the synth tones should ring a bell for Belle & Sebastian fans, singer Lawrence Hayward’s voice is another story, a dorky, romantic warble that’s equal parts Buddy Holly and Lou Reed. Song for song, the album’s remarkably consistent — and remarkably great. How do records like this one become lost in the mists of time so easily? Friends: get Lonely.
For all the chatter over the state of music discovery 
