Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

There are days when I feel like I have told the same story to numerous people multiple times because I cannot stop dwelling on it. I have always struggled with letting things go. People tell me that I am too sensitive and that I just need to let things go. I battle with trying to forget the small injustices from twenty years ago, blaming others for being mean to me when they barely remember doing it. I think I tell stories to try to reorder my life and take control of situations that I cannot control. Of course, my inability to stop dwelling does not account for how I start forgetting minor details and adding others after years of telling stories. We all do this because memory is fallible and people like to entertain. The process of understanding what has happened to us throughout the years is hard to comprehend and understand, especially for those of us who have difficulty not dwelling on every detail. We blame others for the minor bumps in the road and we blame ourselves for im...

Califone's Stitches fulfills their role as the ultimate purveyors of slow, experimental indie-pop songs that flirt with elements of incidental music and soundtrack collage. They seamlessly blend the elements of postrock and 70s singer/songwriter conventions, while developing a soundtrack that approximates the weirdest movie-fan dream.     From the first track, “Movie Music Kills a Kiss,” they navigate this landscape, creating music that pushes this aesthetic into overdrive. Tim Rutili sings “Karen Black forgets the words / Like Memphis when the rapture breaks,” painting a seamless merging of story and song in which their acoustic harmonics and dissonant noises create a perfect backdrop for the gentle lyrics. The title track begins with a smattering of electronics before new wave vocals creep in. The sweet intermingling of   voice and the backup vocals seems disembodied from the music until he sings “the Chinese opera shows the stitches.” Califone's lyrics resemble...

It is time for another trip to the cabin to still my quaking nerves and temper the shift of my lofty or scattered ambitions. I am stressed by the upcoming move and the shifting of time that makes me older but not wiser as I battle my apprehension and dismiss the fact that I actually graduated with a Ph.D. no less, but I can never appreciate my good luck or all the hard work that went into finishing the dissertation, many of it at the cabin. I pack a small number of records; we changed the rules this year, only ten, but both Donny and I are bringing more surreptitiously, unbeknownst to all except each other. We knew we each would and discussed it more than usual, sifting our collections for the unknown, we grabbed albums to introduce to each other like new friends.   After last year's AC/DC debacle, where he tried to play the discography and was shut down, the decision was made (by who?), in passive voice resistance, to bring albums that were near and dear to us and ...

My memories of the first place I lived are fuzzy. I remember orange carpeting and brown walls in the trailer my parents rented the first three years of my life before we moved into the house on 6th Avenue that they still live in thirty years later. I remember a car my mom drove a few years later when she first got her license a little better. It was a tan sedan, a nondescript Ford or Mercury model with leather seats that smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and oil, making my young mind think of the piles of dog poop soured by age that sat in the back yard of my parent's home until we got around to cleaning them up. I cannot remember if most of these experiences were truly real. I know that car was because I was around seven years old when my mother finally learned to drive. She had a series of cars that came from my grandfather's Ford dealership. Later she got her own, but my grandpa drove cars from his garage my entire life; they too smelled of cigarette smoke and old oil. ...

 This is the second part of a summer series of Track This entries that will focus on lesser-known power pop songs. Oklahoma's The Dwight Twilley Band's debut album Sincerely is an undersung power-pop classic that borrows heavily from the Beatles early 70s modus operandi with sweet melodies and understated guitar. The deceptively simple title track follows that pattern as Twilley harmonizes over lead guitar that would not feel out of place on The White Album , although there is a slight southern feeling in its bittersweet revelations, but it never kicks into full gear. He sings "sincerely, I got what you need" as the guitar meanders in and out. The lyrics are metaphysical and lovelorn with Twilley's voice wavering about the death of love and how a "starcold soldier feels." The simple song repeats a basic pattern of understated instrumentation that leads to a call and response between Twilley's vocals and the meandering guitar. Nothing is resolved ...

This is the first part of a summer series of Track This entries that will focus on lesser-known power pop songs. I first discovered Ultimate Fakebook in the cheap bin at one of my favorite record stores, Radio Kaos, and I am not exactly sure why I picked it up. Looking at the album cover for their major label debut, the repackaged This Will Be Laughing Week , now, I do not see how it attracted me. I'm assuming that I had heard the name in reference to shows they played with The Get Up Kids or other Kansas area emo bands that I was heavily into at the time. However, when I played the CD, I realized that Ultimate Fakebook was not an emo band but a power pop band that loved hooks. When I played them for friends, I always compared them favorably to Weezer's early albums. Recently, I listened to an interview with them on the 90s music podcast, Dig Me Out , and they explained that now they tell people they sounded like Weezer. Apparently, at the time they were more interested i...

As spring turns to summer, I often feel old as I remember all of the summers I have spent lazily reading comics and fiction or watching television when I know that I should be writing. Of course, I also spend time outside, usually bicycling, walking, or swimming. These days, however, I generally feel too warm as the humidity and temperature creep up to a shocking eighty degrees. There were many summers where I spent time fishing or running down the sidewalks of my old neighborhood, tripping over the roots of tired trees that lined the walk. One year a friend and I shamefully rode our bikes into sapling poplar trees, leaving black, oozing marks on their trunks. Last time I checked there was only one of those trees left, still battle scarred and defiant. The tree is thirty feet tall now, but its trunk is gnarled and shrunken from our youthful transgressions. Another time I rode my bicycle into a nearby water-filled ditch to avoid bees that were chasing me. They still stung me, and it...