Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

I feel closer to the earth when I go home. I know all the old cliches, especially the hoary old Thomas Wolfe chestnut that "you can't go home again," and I agree partially on principle. Nothing remains the same and each time you bring a different perspective to the people and places of your youth, but something tangible and touching remains. For me, it's the balsams shuddering in a slight breeze, the quiet, static repose of birches near the water's edge, the v-shaped formation of geese heading south, the faint remembrance of the bark of leafless trees -- an interminable number of old signs and slight smells, recalling my childhood and  past. I feel closer to the earth when I go north to the rivers I spent so much time near and the woods I barreled through, uncaring of spiders and ticks, through rainfall and hoarfrost, participating in that age old communion with the land that I feel my ancestors perfected and I must continue. The cold touch of the ground is a mi...

We walked the darkened streets at night, ignoring our studies, ignoring sleep, ignoring the sleeping world. We walked for miles past the abandoned houses on the edge of town, through peaceful  cemeteries, along disused train tracks, near the banks of the river. We trekked through every mile of that dirty old town. We knew where to find the alienated junk shops, the best broken pop machines, the forgotten hulls of ancient automobiles. The scent of an angry skunk, the wandering characters that populated that town, and the street sweepers that patrolled back alleys; none were strangers. We should have even known them by their secret names. All my life I walked at night with honest compatriots, who knew the thrill. We broke out of our houses, disobeying parents to while away the quiet hours of the morning. We ran from commitments, necessary or imagined, to smell the stale night air in August, or to breathe in fresh spring rains. Nothing beat the feeling of strolling down an unknown s...

Not to sound cliched, but there is something different about the North Woods during a frigid winter. Heavy snow nestles in clumps on the median, pine trees are heavy with white, and dark, large crows crowd telephone lines. Small towns and hamlets find protection from encircling balsams. Greyish snow is caked on signposts from the morning plows, pushing, salting, and sanding the world into a shape more suitable to people's whims. The drifting snow covers doorsteps, as the wind whips and whirls outside. The temperature is only -1, but it might drop into the -20's. Even in Illinois, this stops traffic, closes schools, changes the day to day. Here it isn't as common as it once was, but it still creates less of an event. Cars don't start, and there are always more accidents on the first days after a snowfall. Yet as winter settles in, even the deer and birds seem to disappear, except at feeders. Of course, those crows remain, ever watching, ever circling. The worl...

When I was younger, I used to love snow. I would go skiing regularly, barely feeling the cold. I would push myself over hills competing in an imaginary race. If my dad was with me, I would try to beat him even though he could ski much faster. I spent hours training on the kiddie hills trying to master the wishbone technique for climbing difficult hills. I soon realized that the faster I could go, the easier it would be to climb the next hill.  The snowy pine trees and flitting chickadees were a welcoming sight five miles down the ski trail after a difficult run. Although I get envious when I see an older skate skier zoom by and leave me in the lurch. My younger body cannot compete with these octogenarians who ski daily, their arms and legs purely muscled. I still feel like a skinny kid, although I am much bigger, older, and out of shape. I would ski more if there was more snow. Each year we get less and less, the trails are practically bare here. Muddy ruts -- they resemble d...

  From the first notes of "The Corner" on his new record, Mutt, one is drawn into a contagious world of revery, booze, and fun, filtered through Cory Branan's personal vision that makes even his saddest songs joyful. Branan has been road testing many of these songs for years. His last album, 12 Songs , came out in 2006 and a split with Jon Snodgrass appeared in 2009, but most of these songs have been in his live set for years, and they are readily available on various bootlegs, including an excellent showing with Ben Nichols of Lucero. These are the songs that make Mutt essential for any music collection in 2012, yet it will be interesting to see how he transforms his new songs in a live setting. On first listen, Mutt doesn't seem as exuberant as Branan's live show. He seems a tad subdued and his odd sense of humor that bubbles up during song breaks is all but missing. The songs are tighter here and his sense of humor comes through loud and clear in the lyri...