In the year 2012, I have been to Iceland just as many times as I have posted here. Forgive me for the humblebrag, but I really don’t know how else to begin my return to this blog … you know, the one supposedly dedicated to getting me to write more about anything and everything.
The hiatus is partially due to my lack of progress with my Rite of Spring project. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to post again about my story (see below) until I had a complete rough draft to share. And despite my research and writing in January, February, and March … I haven’t finished that—hence the lack of posts. (However, I should have posted about seeing maestro Alan Gilbert leading the Julliard Orchestra in a kick-ass version of the Rite. Hm … maybe I’ll get around to doing that after all.)
In the meantime, however, I have done a variety of things that a less-discriminating person would call “bloggable.” And seeing as I seldom write creatively, or have any wry observations or impassioned views to express in essay form, I must again deign to recounting and reflecting on the life I am extraordinarily lucky to have here in the greatest city in the country world. (And by that I, of course, mean Jersey City.)
Recently I have been steeped in the music of Iceland (shocker, I know.) I listened to Sigur Rós for hours on my flights there and back, and picked up most of their albums—including their new release—as soon as I got home. Sigur Rós has been prog-rocking for a decade, but I’m not sure that I would have liked them if not for my last few years of musical consumption. And with the combination of their first new album in years (and upcoming tour) and my trip to Iceland, it was hard not get swept up in their soaring anthems—where layered crescendos rise inexplicably from minimalist beginnings. This may be neither original nor insightful to say, but nonetheless, Sigur Rós will forever be the soundtrack to my memories of Iceland.
And that’s strange to say considering their music was never played on the radio while I was there; although it’s hardly strange for 10-minute songs to not be considered radio-friendly (just ask Rush.) Instead, pop-radio returned me to America infatuated with an Icelandic band that was, well, already here. Apparently while I was hooked by their endearing songs each afternoon in an Icelandic greenhouse, Of Monsters and Men was charming America with a tour to promote their album, My Head Is an Animal. A month has passed, and there’s no sign of it getting bumped from my iPod. I highly recommend them—and Sigur Rós as well (although they can be less accessible, it’s a rewarding listen.)
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But I also enjoy music beyond the earbuds. Attending concerts is an essential facet of my life here—especially during the summer. Already, the appearance by Sigur Rós in late July is marked (and emphatically circled) on my calendar. I didn’t score tickets, but you will certainly find me with a picnic laying on blanket near the Prospect Park band shell basking in their refreshing wall of sound on a hot summer evening. Before that though, Dan Deacon will be performing a free concert outdoors—surely to be just as sweaty, if not more so, as his indoor parties. And I’ve almost overlooked this Friday, when Tim & I will travel across the East River to see Jukebox the Ghost, one of my favorite bands. Yes, I did just see them in December at Brooklyn Bowl but … they have a new album of fun/clever/quirky songs (which you can listen to here.)
Actually, Brooklyn has become almost a third home (Jersey City and Manhattan still claim most of my time) these past few weeks. There I’ve enjoyed some great restaurants and bars (Smorgasburg in Williamsburg, Zito’s Italian sandwich shop in Park Slope, Greenpoint’s Lobster Joint, and Burger Bistro and The Owl’s Head wine bar in Bay Ridge), new venues (Bar Matchless in Greenpoint, Union Hall in Park Slope, and Williamsburg’s Public Assembly), and new bands at those venues. Stood up at Union Hall one night, I stuck around to catch the acts playing in their basement concert space. A female singer and her band played some bluesy rock, but despite her guitarist’s sweet rifts, I just couldn’t get into their songs. Ignoring an impulse to bail, and to make the cover charge worth it, I stayed for the next band. My persistence was rewarded with Le Blorr, whose funky, psychedelic rock sound they've christened the "Bastard Lovechild of Rock 'n' Roll." With confidence and energy, they engaged the crowd—carrying us high and low with soaring choruses and charging chords. Check'em out when they come to your town.
Next night, next concert: Jackpot, Tiger—whose singer/ukulele player I knew and went to support. The two sweaty and make-up begrimed back-up dancers who joined them onstage were fun to watch, but unnecessary to pump up the 30-odd fans who knew every word of the Jackpot, Tiger songbook. And it’s great to see such genuinely fun, sincere bands receive that kind of loyal support. Speaking of which … please allow me express (and hopefully generate) some for the band I saw play just before JT: Beast Make Bomb. And that, of course, requires an entirely new post.
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