Do Fear the Reaper

 

We’ve been driving around a lot since we arrived, and I’ve learned that Boston rock radio stations have two basic settings: a) songs which belong on a mixtape somebody made for your high school reunion: when you hear them for the first time in a long time, they have kind of a thrilling, guilty-pleasure quality to them, but after multiple listens within a narrow window they become horrifically tedious; and b) songs from a band called “Aerosmith.”

Setting a) includes tunes like “Back in Black,” by AC/DC.  As a red-blooded American male, I shamelessly concede that the hi-hat-plus-muted-power-chord count-in before the triumphant opening Emaj always gets my motor running, but by the time the third solo rolls in, and Brian Johnson is pummeling you with his umpteenth “HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY,” you realize there’s a reason you don’t spin this record at home so often.

Same goes for tracks like “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Eye of the Tiger.”  They possess a certain loin-tugging allure, but after hearing them for the tenth time in a single weekend, you’re ready to steer your car into Fresh Pond.  “Cum on Feel the Noize,” “The Final Countdown,” “I Want You to Want Me:” the list goes on and on.  Or rather, it doesn’t, because the list only has a few dozen songs on it.

Don’t get me wrong: these are all great rock performances (okay, maybe not “The Final Countdown”).  And far be it from me to doubt the magnetism of Robin Zander or the charisma of Rick Nielsen.  The point is not that these aren’t good songs; it’s just that IMHO there are other songs worth spending time with.  And it makes me wonder about the mentality of the supposed listener.  Are there really people out there whose aren’t interested in hearing anything recorded after the first Bush administration? 

Of course, it’s not called commercial radio by accident.  The playlist is curated purely and specifically to lubricate the wheels of commerce – to keep the listener engaged long enough to make it to and through the next batch of ads.  Classic rock targets demographics (Boomers and older Gen Xers) who spend a lot of money.  And I imagine that, by delivering a steady infusion of songs which those demographics associate with their teenage years, the program directors are seeking to push certain buttons.  Buttons which might be labeled “freedom,” “fun,” “sex,” “drugs,” etc.

Still, those listeners have other choices, especially nowadays.  So why is that a market like Boston can still support a good half-dozen classic rock stations, even when a gazillion other songs are only a Bluetoothable phone swipe away?  I suspect that some people simply like to be reminded of what it felt like to be 16, especially while sitting in a mind-numbing commute.  Nostalgia for lost youth is good business.

As I put my top ten list together for 2020, I realize there’s an undercurrent of music snobbery going on here.  As if, by faithfully sitting through a bunch of albums made by people who are closer to my daughters’ ages than to mine, I demonstrate my superiority over the guy who Pavlovianly cranks up the volume at the opening bars to “Love in an Elevator."  A strong case could be made that the same quest-for-lost-youth/fear-of-death is motivating both of us.

More importantly: rest in peace to the lead guitar player for the first band I ever saw live, and who pretty much single-handedly redeems any classic rock playlists he's on.  Thankfully, he's on all of ‘em.

 

My listening schedule was truncated this year by our move to the US, but I still managed to cobble together a Critics Poll ballot for 2020. 

 

Top Ten Albums of 2020

 

10. Kiwi Jr. -- Football Money

You listen to this and you realize that Pavement took themselves much too seriously.

 

9. Andy Shauf -- The Neon Skyline

Linear narrative indie folk rock.  Vocals bear more than a passing resemblance to Paul Simon

 

8. The Beths -- Jump Rope Gazers

Seems at first like a fairly standard power-pop quartet fronted by a woman, and then it occurs to you that she’s singing melodies which remind you of someone, and that someone is Joni Mitchell.  The band is also super-tight. I see that they’re Kiwis, and this year this does seem to be the year for quality releases from ANZAC acts.  The video for “Dying to Believe” is also great.

 

7. Peter Oren -- The Greener Pasture

Indiana baritone sings about horses and cows, which you might expect, and about humanity and technology, which you might not.  The subjects collide beautifully in the album cover art, a cattle ranch envisioned by Sim City, and by “Don’t Eat Their Feed,” which is not actually about hormones and antibiotics in cattle feed.  Or is it?

6. Sarah Walk -- Another Me

This feels like it’s not at all my genre, mainly because I am not a lesbian, but I found this irresistible.  I love her singing voice, and she employs a nifty trick of riding on the same note with the vocals while chords are changing underneath (this worked pretty well for John Lennon).  Tim Merle’s drumming is also outstanding, even though he only plays on like 2 songs.

5. Morrissey -- I Am Not a Dog on a Chain

I understand that we are supposed to disapprove of Morrissey now, because of things he’s said about Brexit or something.  I'm sorry to say I haven’t been paying attention to all that, but I can say that when it comes to how one should consider mass media, or one’s mortality, the Moz is still worth a listen.

 

4. Poppy -- I Disagree

Like the demonic love child of Mr. Bungle and Girls’ Generation.  At first glance, she might seem like she’s trying to ride in the slipstream of the latest Harley Quinn major motion picture release.  But the songs are really good, and the backing band is really, really good.  Not something I’d listen to on a quiet, rainy Sunday afternoon, but this demands attention, in the same way a carjacker demands attention. 

3. Silvana Estrada -- Lo Sagrado

I want to call this deconstructed Mexican music.  The elements are there – female vocalist in Spanish, acoustic guitar, cowbell, horns – but played and arranged in a way that lets something extremely special breathe through.  And the songs are gorgeous.  And the guitar player (who evidently plays a guitar with like 26 strings on it) is amazing.  And the drummer is incredible.  The album is not called “The Sacred” for nothing.

Postscript: the day before we left Switzerland, I was giving a ride to a young brass musician to whom we had given a washing machine and some furniture that we wouldn’t be taking with us.  We struck up a conversation, and, upon hearing that he was Mexican, I put this on the car stereo.  After a few bars, he said, “Ah I know her.  Silvana was my brother’s girlfriend for a while at music school.”  Mundo pequeño.

2. Elizabeth Cook -- Aftermath

Evidently this woman has been singing at the Opry for two decades, but this is closer to Kula Shaker than Roseann Cash.  Overdriven vox, tight-but-not-uptight backing band, and lyrics that sound like they’ve been written by someone with some actual Life Experiences.

 

1. Tame Impala -- The Slow Rush

This isn’t my favorite Tame Impala album.  It might not even be my second-favorite.  But Kevin Parker’s grooves have a way of insinuating themselves into your consciousness, and in retrospect, it seems inevitable that an album about time a would end up on top in 2020.

 

Bonus content for all you lovers out there: my notes on the listening schedule below. Caveat emptor. 

* = recommended

 

070 Shake – Modus Vivendi

I didn’t realize until side 2 that the artist was a woman and not a man, and it forced me to recalibrate my assessment of this.  Initially I was thinking this was ersatz The Weeknd with a strong 808s and Heartbreak influence, which it still is to some extent.  But for some reason the story of betrayal and relationship-collapse lands differently when it’s a woman singing about it.  The converse was true when Leo Marochioli covered “Poker Face.”

 

*2ndGrade – Hit To Hit

GBV meet the Minutemen, with a nod to Real Estate up the Turnpike.  Melodies which climb to the top of the water tower to gaze at the landscape, before unzipping the backpack to get at the mixed beer cans individually smuggled out of their parents’ fridge.

 

Angela Aguilar – Baila Esta Cumbia

She’s got a great voice, but the rich, creamy sauce of horns, strings, and accordion are laid on a bit too thick for my taste.  Listening to Francophone radio over here, one often encounters accordions, and these meetings typically don’t go well. 

 

* Ingrid Andress – Lady Like

This comes up as “country” on Apple Music, and there’s a wisp of pedal steel on the opening track to orient the listener just in case, but this does not get bogged down in genre stereotypes (she in fact decries the shortcomings of drinking one’s problems away, which is especially welcome).  High-quality singer-songwriter stuff in which every relationship is complicated, which hard-hitting couplets like: “Love me or don’t / But you can’t do both”

Fiona Apple – Fetch The Bolt Cutters

I tried like seven times to listen to this during the course of 2020, and for one reason or another I never made it past the third track. 

 

* Vanessa Carlton – Love Is an Art

One of those female singer/songwriters whose vocals are recorded with that technique that allows you to experience every glottal stop as if you were inside her glottal.  She grew on me over the course of the album, and I think she’s at her best when she’s channeling her inner Tori Amos.  The piano playing is very good, too.

 

Gus Dapperton – Orca

Kind of like the Early November, but after all the distortion pedals had been confiscated.  All those emo guys are really theater kids at heart.

 

Lana Del Rey – Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass

You won’t find this on Apple Music, because it’s not music per se.  Del Rey released a book of poetry this year, and this is her reading it over a bed of incidental, reverbed-out electric piano, through what sounds like an iPhone in her backyard, where the whoosh of traffic and/or the ocean can also be heard.  I happened to read a lot of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes this year, and with those two as a reference, Del Rey’s poems are a bit hit-or-miss, but I’m sure her fans are devouring this like those chocolate-covered açai berries from CVS.  

 

* Lupe Fiasco & Kaelin Ellis – House

Like the ultra-smart guy in your freshman dorm who talked about the cosmos and was stoned a lot, but who was still a really sympathetic character.  Hyper-intelligent and -observant rapping about metaphoric dinosaurs and shilling on the Internet and covid, over somniferent beats.  Guest starring architect and designer Virgil Abloh, who squeezes every last drop out of the “soul/sole” homophone,

 

* Carly Rae Jepsen – Dedication Side B

In CRJ’s world, romantic relationships aren’t at all complicated.  And I suppose there’s a certain point in every romantic relationship in which things are bright and pleasant and optimistic and you can’t imagine why it wouldn’t stay like that forever, and during those times it’s best not to think about it too much and just enjoy it while it lasts.  An interesting contrast to Ingrid Andress. 

 

Tkay Maidza – Last Year Was Weird, Vol. 2

Quality singing and rapping from an Australian by way of Zimbabwe, or vice-versa.  She hits her stride around mid-album, topped by the barn-burning “Shook.”  Brimming with talent, but I fear she has nothing much to say, and there should be a one-per-album limit on ending a couplet with “tetris.”

 

Megan Thee Stallion – Good News

It’s “of a piece” with “W.A.P.,” though the album doesn’t quite reach the raunchy glory of the single, and a full-length becomes extremely tiring.  Her producer’s incessant employment of her vocal quirk of saying “aaah” like there’s a tongue depressor (or, um, something) jammed into her throat becomes anxiety-triggering after a while.

 

Mildlife – Automatic

Psychedelic, groovy, experimental – all qualities which would normally float my boat.  And yet: trying to impersonate Pink Floyd, much less Tame Impala, is not the sure thing one might think it is.  These guys can certainly play, but I got the feeling, somewhere between the flute solo and the Al Jarreau guitar/scat bit, that they were showing off.

 

Roisin Murphy – Roisin Machine

I was happy to see everyone’s favorite insane Irish disco queen back at it, evidently with some strong label support.  I really wanted to love this, and there are some bright moments (“Kingdom of Ends,” “Gamechanger”), but too often this sounds like standard-issue EDM.   

 

* Nas – King’s Disease

Like Philip Roth in his last decades, Nas has nothing left to prove to anyone, yet he still delivers high-quality stuff that you want to engage with.  My only gripe is with the production, which sounds a little tinny, but it could have been a headphone issue.  Also, as a gout sufferer myself (it runs in the family), I appreciate Nas’s advice on the lemongrass and cherries. 

 

* Open Mike Eagle – Anime, Trauma and Divorce

Deft rapping over backwards-sounding backing tracks.  “WTF Is Self-Care?” an early front-runner for funniest song of the year.

 

The Proper Ornaments – Mission Bells

I listened to this while taking one of the cats to the douane to pay the fee that his breeder should have paid when he (the cat) originally entered Switzerland from Slovakia where he was born, without which we wouldn’t be able to take him to the US in 9 days, a scenario I don’t even wish to imagine, and which was probably not the ideal set of conditions for listening to this album.  Some interesting chord changes, but I believe the artist you are looking for is The Clientele.

 

Caroline Rose – Superstar

Mostly keyboard-driven, mostly danceable pop music.  The Apple Music notes say this is some sort of concept album, but it mainly reminded me of the music I used to hear through my gay neighbor’s door in the mid-90’s.  Great bass playing though, although I can’t find who’s playing, despite extensive googling.

 

Troye Sivan – In A Dream

Like the love child of Justin Bieber and James Blake.

 

Soccer Mommy – Color Theory

Young indie-ish singer-songwriter who strains to hit the high notes now and then, but is otherwise fine to have on while you’re cooking dinner.  “Yellow is the color of her eyes” is a great song.  She’s right to let those chord changes go on for 7 minutes.  Good candidate for should be sent to the minors, etc.

 

The Streets – None Of Us Are Getting Out Of This Life Alive

I first need to get over my need to grammar edit the album title: to change the “Are” to “Is,” and to delete “Life.”  Mike Skinner is back on the horse, with some bumping electro keyboard and trademark ambivalence about phones and the people who use them.  He sounds a little tired, but don’t we all at this point.   

 

The Strokes – The New Abnormal

What does one do when the denim and swagger starts to wear thin?  Retreat to 80’s synth and guitar sounds perhaps, or try to sing like Bono?  I feel like they may be onto something with the last couple of ballad-y tracks, but it felt like a slog to get there.

 

Taylor Swift – Folklore

A convincing Liz Phair impersonation, from the laid-back throatiness of her delivery to the carefully placed f-bombs.  This being Taylor Swift, I’m not sure if I totally buy the casual act, but the songs are certainly good enough.  Oh, look, she just dropped another album this year as well.  I suppose one can only make so much sourdough. 

 

Devon Williams – A Tear in The Fabric

Back in the mid 90’s when I was playing in a band in New York City, we would usually be booked with four or five other acts, each of which would get around 45-minute sets.  One night I remember there was another band playing which was clearly filled with music school guys: they were all very good at their instruments, and they were a bit older than the rest of us (the bass player was probably pushing 40).  They had a bald drummer, who from time to time would wink at the bass player.  The songs weren’t terribly good, and it seemed to me like there was something very intentional about them, if that makes any sense.  Anyway, for some reason this Devon Williams album reminded me of them.  Fans of The Church and Geddy Lee’s low notes might find this interesting.

 

* Hayley Williams – Petals For Armor

I’ve never really gotten into Paramore, so I don’t feel like I have the proper context to approach this.  Her people seem to have listened to some St. Vincent over recent years, and it sounds pretty damn great in these new Shure headphones I borrowed from my wife.  I’m not sure if she has anything interesting to say, but I recommend this for the drum textures alone.

 

 

In the future the robots will care for us

 All the races are cancelled, so I perked up last week when I received the email saying that the 20km de Genève was organizing something.  Initial confusion at the subject line which read “2.0km de Genève.” I thought this was either a typo, or that perhaps they had broken down the race into 2.0km intervals, which seemed odd.  Finally I realized that they meant “2.0” as in “version 2.0,” a clever touch further over-egged in the modified logo, which had the “.” in “2.0” at the tip of the accent grave of “Genève,” like a typographical shooting star.  This year’s edition would have the usual choices of 5km/10km/20km distances.  But since we wouldn’t be able to run all together given COVID restrictions, each participant could run whenever they wanted (before Nov 22^nd), and we could follow the course and track our times via a smartphone app.  I signed up for the 10km. 

I set the alarm for 7:45, but I woke up a few minutes before it went off. I fed the cats, had coffee and toast with almond butter, drove to the other side of the lake, and parked near the finish line.  I traversed the Paquis (the closest Geneva has to a “red light district”), past a disheveled woman on a park bench speaking loudly to herself and a young African guy listening to music on his phone, which he held at ear level but looked away from.  I arrived at Rue de Lausanne just in time to catch the #15 tram, which would bring me up to the starting line at Place de Nations.  I realized that I had forgotten to bring a mask, which is obligatoire on public transportation now, so I slid the Buff I had brought with me over my head and wore it bandit-style.

Near the front gates of the United Nations, a few other runners milled around, heads bowed as they consulted their phones.  I almost never run with a phone, as I don’t listen to music or anything when I run, and I don’t like to have the extra weight on me.  I also enjoy the feeling of not knowing exactly where I am when I’m running, when the aperture of my senses seems to be at its widest.  On those rare occasions when I have brought my phone with me on a long run, it’s been stowed away in a pocket in my hydration vest, withdrawn only to take a picture if the scenery is especially nice.  I cringe whenever I see someone running with their phone in their hand, as if they were desperately chasing after it.

However, given the set-up of this race, leaving the phone behind wouldn’t be an option, especially if I wanted to “register” my time – something with no tangible value whatsoever, but one likes to be “official” and to compare times with other runners.  I wore a long-sleeve top with a phone-sized pocket over the left breast, so my plan was to put the phone in there, hoping that it wouldn’t bounce around too much.    

The blue sign marking the starting line was attached to a lamppost at the bottom of Avenue de la Paix, which curves up and around the UN headquarters.  As I approached, three fit looking guys fiddled with phones and watches as they engaged in pre-race bouncing-in-place.  They were lean and fast-looking, with close-cropped hair and red knee-high compression socks, so I figured I would let them go first, so I wouldn’t have to endure the psychological blow of watching them speed away from me.  After a few seconds, one of them said, “Okay, allez,” and off they flew, only to come tramping back down the hill around 20 seconds later, frowning and muttering that the app hadn’t started properly.  A moment later, they had sorted things out, and they disappeared around the corner for the second time.

I took out my phone and opened the race app, which required logging in with a registration number I had been emailed.  Once open, the app told me cheerily to “approach the starting point!”  I looked up and confirmed that I was standing immediately next to the start sign, but for some reason the app said I was 35 meters from the start, then 50 meters, then 10 meters, as I assume the GPS was trying to find me.  Then all of a sudden, a synthetic male voice with a British accent began counting down, calmly but very loudly: “TEN…NINE…EIGHT…”  I managed to stuff the phone back in my pocket and get the zipper closed by the time he reached “ONE,” and off I went. 

Normally at the start of a race, you feed on the excitement of the people around you, so you run faster.  This morning, there was no one around me save the stray passing car, but I still found myself breathing and stepping more quickly than I would on a normal Sunday morning. 

Soon the app’s voice (hereafter “the Voice”) switched over to synthetic British female.  She gave a plug for a breast cancer charity.  I huffed up the long hill, past the US mission and the hotel school.  The Voice then instructed me to take my next left onto Chemin de Machéry, butchering the pronunciation and making me wish I had chosen the French Voice.  I passed through the village of Pregny-Chambésy, and the Voice welcomed me, mangling its name as well. Then the grade smoothed out and the road narrowed, and I moved through the quite pretty and bucolic fields outside of town.  Ahead of me, beyond the airport, the Jura mountains hung purple as the sun strained to burn through in the morning mist.  This is one of the cooler things about living here: one can go from the center of town to farmland in a matter of minutes.  My legs felt strong and my rhythm steady as I headed downhill in the direction of the autoroute.  My km splits were under 5:00, so my rough target time of less than 50:00 (respectable for me on a hilly course like this) was still within reach.  

As I came to an intersection, the Voice instructed me to cross the street, turn into a private driveway, and follow a path into the woods.  This sounded a little suspicious, but I did as I was told, and behind a row of jumelle houses there was indeed a path, which I followed.  I checked my phone, and the little blue dot indicating me was still overlaying the red line indicating the course.  The path became a trail through thick woods, but the Voice’s commands were clear, and I negotiated a couple of turns while keeping a brisk pace.

The path hugged the edge of the woods parallel to the autoroute, then turned east, back toward the lake.  I checked my phone a couple of times to make sure I was still on course.  After another 500 meters or so, the light ahead of me started to brighten as the path neared the edge of the woods.  I emerged to find myself at a T intersection, with concrete paths the color of butter leading to the left and right of me.  In front of me on the other side of a wall were train tracks. 

I realized that I hadn’t heard the Voice in a while, and when I pulled out my phone to check, I saw that I had somehow flicked the little “silent” switch on the side.  The red line on the phone map seemed to lead to the right, so I continued that way.  I held my phone as I ran, trying to get my bearings, but the little me-dot was drifting away from the line of the course.  The Voice remained sullenly silent.

Raising my gaze, I saw figures moving quickly toward me, and as they got closer, I recognized the three fast-looking guys from the starting line.  They passed me and headed back in the direction I had come.  I paused for a moment, and then decided that I must have made a wrong turn, and that I should follow them, at least until I could figure out where I was.  I turned and ran back for another 3 minutes or so, past the T intersection, before realizing that no, this was actually the wrong direction.  The three fit guys were probably running the 20km, which starts with the 10km, but then peels off into a different direction. 

Still clutching my phone, I headed back in the other direction, past the T intersection again.  Looking down, I noticed that my screen had gone black, as my phone had locked itself.  I unlocked it, poking awkwardly with the touchscreen-sensitive tip of my gloved index finger, to find that the app itself had closed.  I reopened it, and it asked me for my password again, which I had to dig around in my email to find.  Finally, I managed to log in, and a cheery “approach the starting point!” message appeared on the screen.  The app had evidently forgotten that I had already started.  I poked around, looking for other menus that might be able to let me pick up where I left off, but there were none.

By this point, around ten minutes had passed since I had first emerged from the woods.  Fortunately, I could still see the course map on my phone, and I was able to pick my way across a bridge over the train tracks, then down a set of stairs to a paved path that ran parallel to them, alongside a cluster of houses near the lake side of Chambésy.  My pace had slowed, and finally I emerged near the gas station close to the autoroute on-ramp, a landmark I knew well, so I would be able to find my way "unofficially" to the finish line from there.

I would like to say that at some point I experienced a peaceful moment of “letting go” and giving thanks for the misty fall morning and for living in such a lovely place and for the ability to go out and run: a Zen-like realization that it’s not about how fast you get to the finish line, but the joy in the journey, etc.  I did not. Instead I just felt sour as I loped past the WTO, then down alongside the water for the final kilometer or so.  The paths next to the shimmering lake were already crowded with people, desperately clutching at the few remaining strands of fall before the arrival of the long, dark winter, whose approach this year feels especially ominous.  I passed the blue sign marking the finish line, then walked to my car and drove home, feeling the chill from the sweaty clothes clinging to me.