So things might get a bit bumpy, non-existant readers.
In the meantime, enjoy Thom Yorke and a Thom Yorke-lookalike lady dancing:
So things might get a bit bumpy, non-existant readers.
In the meantime, enjoy Thom Yorke and a Thom Yorke-lookalike lady dancing:
Despite our claims of sexism, in the last two years, two smoky and sparse female rockers have come out of nowhere to claim our top album of the year spot. If you scanned our most anticipated albums of 2013, however, you wouldn’t find a single one. Given the ridiculous slate of great music to be released in 2013, I’d bet against a hat trick, but if the stylings of PJ Harvey and Sharon Van Etten are your thing as much as they are ours, Torres’ quietly explosive eponymous album is well worth throwing in the ring.
As per usual, our best albums of 2012 proved that my powers of anticipation for the year’s best albums were weak. Our overall and my personal #1 was ranked #45, our #2 was unranked, our #3 was #52, our #4 was unranked, and our #5 unranked. But hey: #6 was ranked #5, and #7 was ranked #1. So hey, baby steps.
I have to admit: this year’s lineup of albums is getting me pretty excited. A lot of very, very promising releases.
In January, I looked through our list of most anticipated albums of 2011 to see how my powers of prognostication held up. Well… let’s start with the fact that I ranked my own personal and our overall number one album of 2011 at #21… below Peter, Bjorn, & John. Whoops. Sorry, Polly Jean.
Of the albums in our actual top #20 of 2011, only six were in the top #20 of the anticipated list (Radiohead, Cut Copy, Fleet Foxes, Jay-Z & Kanye, Bon Iver, and Kurt Vile). Seven of our anticipated of 2011 continue to be anticipated: next year in Aphex Twin? And a whole bunch of albums that hadn’t been announced swarmed the lists. Of course, it’s also possible that I may not be as hip to the “new music” as I pretend to be…
So, for my own edification, right after doing that comparison, I put together this list of my most anticipated albums of 2012 in January, with the intention of posting it. January’s the new March, know what I mean, Vern?
I’m going to try to keep this updated as new releases come out. When an album’s release is conjectural, I’ve noted it, and weighed that albums anticipation level accordingly. I won’t change the order based on hearing an album, but I will try to update it based on albums being announced, like I’ve just done by adding Beach House to the #1 spot cuz holy shit a new Beach House album.
Click here for our top 20, geographic breakdown, individual voter lists, etc. Thanks to all the voters for humoring me. Happy New Years to all.
Even though the blog has been still for many a month now, my love-life hasn’t. After a Russian doll-worthy series of lies, I conned my then-girlfriend into arriving at the PEP Boys parking lot at Broad and Federal in Philadelphia. That is, directly outside the stately row home we met six years ago as roommates. Where the Blood Feathers happened to be playing their beyond-lovely “You’re Welcome.” And Bands in the Backyard happened to be filming. The rest, as they say, is engagement history.
Thank ya’ll. And Kandace, this is the punishment for never posting on Noise Narcs: you become the subject of the post. And the subject of the rest of my life.
The Blood Feathers will be playing Johnny Brenda’s 5th Year Anniversary on Friday, September 30th 9:15PM, with Like A Fox and Matthew O’Neill opening. Tickets are $10, available here.
“You can go into Ginsberg and the Beat poets and Dylan, but Gil Scott-Heron is the manifestation of the modern word,” Chuck D., the leader of Public Enemy, told The New Yorker in 2010. “He and the Last Poets set the stage for everyone else.”
So, this is our final “official” post before we enter the blissful sleep of the real world. Thanks for reading. But does anyone mourn the passing of a music blog? I mean, c’mon now: this ain’t no Rolling Stone. Thank God. But if one were to mourn a music blog, there’d only be one way to do it: the immemorial NOLA dirge, “St. James Infirmary.”
It’s a song recorded by hundreds. Of unclear origins—possibly forked from the old English folk song “The Unfortunate Rake,” possibly not. “Written” in the early 20th century, but not recorded until 1928. Multiple claims to authorship, multiple disputed authors. Lyrical variations laid upon lyrical variations: some start in a bar, some in the infirmary. All end in recalcitrant sorrow. A palimpsest of heartbreak. And even the most dreadful versions cannot sully the song’s core: the sorrow of the unrepentant sinner, world-weary but defiant. Defiant but broken.
All the versions, whether they start at old Joe’s bar room or the infirmary, concern a gambling man who confronts the body of his dead lover in the titular infirmary. Thoroughly grieved, he thinks of his own death. But even through the grief, he will not give up his earthly ways. He’s to be buried in high style, with the accouterments of the gambler: a fifth of Chivas, a Stetson hat, or a 20-dollar gold piece. Head held high; heart sunk low; ready for death.
Although Armstrong was not the first to record “St. James,” Robert W. Harwood whose definitive book I Went Down to St. James Infirmary [Buy] and accompanying blog are worth checking out, describes how Satchmo formed it into perfection:
The versions that appeared in Carl Sandburg’s collection of traditional American songs (The American Songbag – ©1927) were written in 6/8 time. They were ballads. One of the significant differences between these songs and the recordings that both included and followed the 1928 Louis Armstrong recording was a change in rhythm – to 4/4 time. With this change in rhythm the song had become danceable. More specifically, one could dance the foxtrot to it. [I Went Down to St. James Infirmary]
So the next time someone says that they don’t get what jazz is all about (it happens), I’m going to give them this definition: beyond the improvisation, jazz is, at heart, grief you can dance to. You can hear it, in all fullness, in Armstrong’s first recorded version, 12/12/1928, Chicago, which for the record, jazz purists, involved no improvisation. Still hits it for me.
But if someone wants something more than a wordy definition for jazz, offer them Armstrong’s languorous version from 1959′s Satchmo Plays King Oliver. It’s possible for somebody not to “get” jazz. It’s impossible to not get this recording. Slowed down to a crawl, with aching harmonization, softly whirling trumpet, and clarinet lines that simply cannot be beat. It’s shocking to hear the difference in Armstrong’s voice; how airy it was in 1928, how effectively he uses his age-grained voice in ’59. And, when he laughs at the line, “she can look this wide world over, but she’ll never find a sweet man like me,” calling himself out as a braggard, he gets to the very heart of the song’s wounded defiance. And lucky for us, every single beat of this song gets it, too. This is the song as I first heard it, this is the song that accompanies me in every sundry sadness. This defines “dirge.”
Have you picked yourself up from the floor? Your tear holes all plugged up? Good. Although no version, in my mind, touches Armstrong’s take from 1959, there are, unsurprisingly, a multitude of excellent versions of this song.
Let’s ease our way back in with a breezy instrumental version from Allan Tuissant. Even played as a folksy jam, this song doesn’t lose its bite. And there’s nothing not to love with Tuissant’s boogying piano or that upright bass work.
Bobby “Blue” Bland
What? Sick of jazz already? What do you think this is, some sort of indie rock blog? Guess what: blog’s dead, baby, blog’s dead. But fine, we’ll move off jazz. How does a NOLA funeral dirge play as traditional soul? Quite fine, sir, quite fine. And I desperately want to be at this Bland show. Pun! Seriously, damn masterful soul.
Still sick of jazz? Well, how about some soul jazz, you philistine? Starts off a capella. That voice, man, is a devastating killer. Jesus, Lou, that voice. Then the band kicks in, and it swings. Oh boy does it swing.
Back to jazz, suckers. For years, I had this version marked down as mediocre, but on re-listen, the cartooniness that I always hated, that always seemed off-color, underscores the song’s essential deep, bleak current. There’s also a Betty Boop cartoon set to this version that I won’t link to because it’s just so goddamned racist.
Why include this song? When we already have a superior early dixeland version in Armstrong’s? When you’re already sick of jazz? Because Wingy Manone only had one arm, that’s why. Take that, Rick Allen. Also, sick clarinet solo, ya’ll. You play it so good, indeed.
Eric Burdon and the Animals
Okay. We’re done with jazz, promise. But what the hell is this? This version’s source is the branch that starts at an Irish bar. It has wailing “Oh no” background singers. And a guitar pedaled to sound like a sitar. And then goes from blues into punchy psych-pop guitar. And then ends with jazz rock piano. It’s… Jesus. What the hell is this?
The White Stripes
They turn it into a White Stripes song. !Que Sorpresa!
I’ve never been a fan of Seegar. His brand of folk always felt too pedantic to me. His voice too reedy. So I wanted to hate this version. Seegar’s thin, twisting voice seems like it’d be an odd choice. But in duet with his banjo, it strikes the core of this song’s despair. It’s plainness is relentless.
Given the palimp-cestuous nature of “St. James Infirmary,” it’s only fitting to end this post with a song that’s only derived from it. See, Blind Willie McTell was a blues guitarist from Georgia, born blind in one eye, and then had his sight fade from the other. He wrote the classic “Dyin’ Crapshoot Blues (although his authorship seems to have been, fittingly, a bit of a lie), which borrows liberally from “St. James Infirmary.”
Originally intended for Infidelds, Dylan’s “Blind Willie McTell” weaves the twisted history of “St. James” and “Crapshoot Blues” into this gorgeous, dazzlingly self-referential track. Dylan envisions himself travelling the earth in search of the blues, only to repeatedly find that “no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell.” The kicker? Dylan forms the melody from “St. James Infirmary.” A self-portrait of the artist as a copy. An unending circle of borrowing, of the meaningless of authenticity, of genius. And at the end of the song’s fruitless search for authenticity, Dylan, envisioning himself back in his North Country hearth, winks, pointing out the window of Minneapolis’ St. James Hotel. Bring it all—this post, this blog, “St. James Infirmary’—back home, Bobby:
Well, God is in His heaven
And we all want what’s his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I’m gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
Noise Narcs out.
As you, our single digit readers, may have noticed, our posting has “slowed.” Although I’ve had a ton of fun writing about music, bands, and Philadelphia for the past year and a half, Noise Narcs will no longer be regularly updated. At the very least, this site will stay active in its current form until the end of the year, and then I’ll move it to cheaper (read: free) hosting, where it will live in semi-retirement, gathering moss and making future generations snicker. Like a Geocities X-Files fansite. It’s likely that there will be a few more sporadic posts, as whim strikes us, over the next few months. And the site will live on as a portal for our friendly Best Album of the Year poll.
So thank you. Thank you readers. Thank you to all the bands who submitted music. A special thank you to all the bands who submitted who didn’t suck (a surprisingly large percentage).
A big thanks to all the bands who endured our awkward interviews: Jeremy Barnes of A Hawk and a Hacksaw, Incan Abraham, Work Drugs, Bridge Underwater, Drew from Blood Feathers, The Eeries, and Grubby Little Hands.
Thank you to our loyal contributing narcs: Christopher “I know how spell psychedelic” T, Cydney “Music to dance/read/write to” A, Billy “I actually know things about music” L, Greg “I’m confused about The National” W, Matt “Gaga” K, Trent “amazing Italian video” W, my brother Aaron “I teach the children of rock stars” G, Katherine “I’m adorable about talking about how I don’t know anything about music but still am willing to post” H, Kenny “stills owes a Mog post” R, Andrew Mattey from Cozy Galaxies, Matt “What’s PBR&B?” S, Miya “Dairyland” T, and Dave “Ugly Furniture” B. And thanks to all of you who contributed to our year end lists: I hope you’ll keep doing it.
Thanks to all of our commenters. At the most spiteful and banal, you made us feel read. At your best, you made us feel challenged, intrigued, and appreciated.
Our sincere gratitude to the bands who played our show in March: Cozy Galaxies, Bridge Underwater, and Grubby Little Hands. You guys killed it, and I’m excited to hear where you guys will be going next.
Thanks to MOG, who ran our advertising. And I say this with all impartiality, if you love music, you should subscribe. Their pitch-perfect streaming has changed, permanently, the way I listen to music. So one last heartfelt advertisement: .
Penultimately, a few shoutouts to a few highlights among the Noise Narc features and posts:
This really has been a pleasure for me. And, on Friday, tune in for my last “official” post: numerous versions of the saddest goodbye song I know. It’ll be a real tearjerker, jerks.