I was in love before the CD even ended

February 28, 2007


I can’t keep quiet about this any longer. I just can’t do it.

I’ve got the new Modest Mouse album, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank (release date March 20th). And it’s really good. I mean, really really good.

Is it the addition of former Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr? Is it a backlash from the simply good (but not good enough) Good News for People Who Love Bad News? Is it that the first released radio track is beyond good – one of the best songs from the album – and is causing me and everyone else in the world to renew faith in Seattle’s favorite pseudo-indie, seemingly sea-faring quartet that features a former Morrissey bandmate?

I don’t know what it is. But this album is different. Where Good News sounded like a major-label debut (it wasn’t – the brilliant The Moon and Antarctica was), this album sounds quirkier, more intense and more interesting. Where Good News was light and fluffy, We Were Dead has balls. Where Good News relied on slick production, We Were Dead makes it work twice as hard without losing the overall feel.

We Were Dead...This album is amazing – from the opening, angsty screaming on the opening track to “Spitting Venom,” a track that has, in the span of numerous listens, blasted its way into the top five of all Modest Mouse songs, a track that seems more at home on Lonesome Crowded West than on anything more recent.

This is Modest Mouse taking the best of the new and the best of the old and smashing it together into a grown up sound – an evolved noise that brings to mind the most enlightening points of their major label albums while keeping honest to their originality – the angular chops, the spacey drawn-out notes, the twisted lyrics.

And it works.

And it’s great.

I went through a musical renaissance thanks to The Moon and Antarctica, an album that spurred a personal revolution – much like The Beatles’ Revolver or Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit changed how millions listened to music. For me, it was the end-of-the-world sound – the long, barren notes, paired perfectly with some of the best poetry I’ve ever bothered to understand.

I was predictably disappointed with Good News. I expected Moon Part Two. I didn’t get it. Instead, I grew to love it as a flawed album, one that sounded forced, as if the band members were bored with each other and bored with their sound. They tried to change, but the change didn’t turn out as well as they thought. It’s good, but it’s not Modest Mouse like I had fallen in love with them.

And then, this.

I knew We Were Dead would appeal to me, but I never imagined it would be this good. I say without hyperbole that there are parts in every song (minus one) that bring chills. I hear the ghosts of former albums, a mashup of what I’ve always loved about the band. I hear the growth. I hear the maturity, tinged with a stain of longing for the indie days, the oft-remembered poor days.

It’s not often that a band can come back from going down the wrong direction. Millions who were turned on by Good News will wonder what Modest Mouse is doing. And the Millions who were turned off by Good News will assume that this is the same old shit – “Float On, part deux.”

Those people can keep thinking that. I know what this is – a rebirth. It’s a return to the sparse and intense songs that Modest Mouse used to catch my heart the first time – the wordplay that sent me down a spiral of extracurricular thought and the arrangements that played tricks with my developing college mind. The oddness is truly back, and not in a forced wasted way but in a “keep your mind going” way.

I’m not going to say it’s a masterpiece. Nothing is ever as good as the album you first fell in love with. But if The Moon and Antarctica and Lonesome Crowded West are both top five albums of all time, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank is now in the top 20. And rising.

Welcome back, Modest Mouse. And thank you.

—

(Check out the new video for the first single, “Dashboard.”)

Tags: Music |

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Wishing a rumor away

February 28, 2007


Please. No.

From the Dallas Morning News:

Reggie on the radar?

No way of knowing how serious it is yet, but Reggie Miller could be a candidate for the Mavericks’ vacant roster spot.

Owner Mark Cuban brought up Miller’s name before Monday’s game against the Hawks. The former Indiana Pacers star is the No. 1 3-point shooter in NBA history. He retired after the 2004-05 season, but remains in excellent physical shape.

And joining the Mavericks would give him the chance to do about the only thing he never did in his illustrious career – win a championship.

Avery Johnson said he and president of basketball operations Donnie Nelson have been discussing options for the open spot, but are not close to any decisions.

Miller currently is a member of TNT’s broadcast team.

It’s a silly rumor, but it’s a real one all the same. If this happens, and Reggie concedes to win a title the cheap way, I will lose a lot of respect for him.

Please, Reggie. Stay away from basketball. Look at what happened to Jordan — disappointment.

Tags: Basketball, Indiana Pacers, Sports |

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Defending Bryson

February 26, 2007


In the most snarky of literary circles, Bill Bryson is too safe. Too vanilla. Too giggly to be taken seriously. He writes travel literature, and he makes silly little jokes and he’s round and white and pseudo-British. He’s a dork. It’s not cool to like Bill Bryson.

With that said, I love him. Thankfully, Sam Jordison of The Guardian has thrown off the shackles of snob-dom and taken the side of Bryson as well: “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bill Bryson.”

As I see it, Bryson’s perceived crimes against high art are threefold. He’s easy, he’s popular and he seems to be a thoroughly decent sort. Oh, and he’s always cracking jokes. But (as Bryson himself often says) here’s the thing. His jokes are actually funny. What’s more they’re beautifully crafted. His easy, relaxed style conceals impeccable artistry. His sentences are well measured, neatly shaped and generally delightful. As a creator of epigrams he has no modern rival. He’s been quietly raining down gold from the first two sentences of his first book onwards: “I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to.”

I love the guy, it’s true. He rekindled my interest in writing and strenghthened my love of travel. And I don’t get the commonly-held idea that Bryson is too commercial - too safe and boring and simple. I don’t get how a person can pick up his books and not enjoy them. Isn’t that what books are for? Enjoying?

Try as I may, I will never be able to stomach being a literary highbrow. I can’t handle the over-thought verbiage that accompanies most book reviews, and I can’t begin to understand the idea of reading books, hating every word, and spitting bile all over a page in defense of one’s own taste from the oncoming brutal march of horrible prose.

Instead, I find that if I don’t like a book, I stop reading it. I am currently sampling the literary world’s great books and authors in order to become more enlightened, not to have a head up in debate over why Voltaire’s Candide is more essential to the Earth-and-all-that-reside-upon-it than Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I like to read. I enjoy books. I often find nothing wrong with books that I read that others have routinely denounced.

I see this in the world of indie rock. A popular band is no longer a viable resource for coolness. So that band is called a “sell out.” It happens all the time. And it’s annoying. Bands are railed upon for not changing their sound. Or, they’re railed upon for changing too much. Bands signing with major label are seen as soft. Obscure bands with no real talent are hailed as brilliant.

It’s the same with books.

If you want to like books, reading, etc., and be seen as an expert, you apparently need to set up a front of critical venom. And often, this means taking popular authors to task for not creating intelligent enough writing. In this way, good writers are thrown aside onto the trash heap, relegated to potboiler status due to their unfortunate ability to sell books.

Some authors are truly no good, in my mind. So I don’t read them. But I can’t deny the fact that there are lots of people who love them, and there are lots of people who buy their books. Danielle Steele may be writing the same novel over and over again, but she’s much richer than I’ll ever be.

Yes, I can be critical. But I try not to be. I respect your opinion. I don’t mind if you like Janet Evanovich or Stephen King. I don’t even mind if you liked Dan Brown – I didn’t mind him, actually, and that’s blasphemy to the literary elite. I have my own “safe, popular” favorites. We all do.

Not everyone is like this, granted. But there are some – those that turn their nose up when you mention the book you’re reading, as if that book might suddenly make them less potent, less of an expert. There are people who make a large noise about how they’re not reading any of the Oprah-selected books, seemingly yelling. “Books aren’t for the proletariat! They’re for the thinking elite! They’re for me and my ilk and not for you pedestrian readers!”

Oh well. Yell as they may, we’ll keep reading our pedestrian wares. I mean, we’re reading, after all. That’s what’s important, right?

Tags: Books, Journalism, Literature, Writers |

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Season Ticket Review: On hiatus

February 25, 2007


Skyforce

Games 16 and 17 – Fort Worth Flyers (18-12) at Sioux Falls Skyforce (17-14). February 25th and 27th, 2007.

No. I’m not sure how these games will be. No, I’m not going to write about the half-time shows or the bad outside shooting. No, I won’t be boring you, the faithful reader, with a recap of how the opposing team has two players that may have been drafted in a draft that I watched on television during my honeymoon in New Orleans.

I won’t be doing that. I’m not going.

Now, now – before you start posting vicious rumors on the Sioux Falls Skyforce Message Board announcing my resignation from Skyforce fandom, I’m not mad at the team. I’m not ditching my allegiance. I’m not looking for some sort of pity party because after 15 straight home games, I’m missing two. I’m just tired.

That’s all. I’m tired.

We have just arrived home from a weekend long, blizzard-filled trip to the Twin Cities. We saw good friends, we watched good basketball and we sat around in a nice hotel while the world outside frantically sought out its shovel and mittens. We drove for nearly five hours in difficult Interstate conditions. And now we’re home, and it’s an hour before the game, and we don’t think we’re going. It’s too hard.

Being a season-ticket holder can be a bane as much as a boon. It means that we’re locked in to certain games, seemingly forced to go because, after all, we’ve already purchased the tickets. So while I do it with regret, with painful, torrential dismay, I will not be going to the games.

We may have had enough basketball for the week, anyway. Friday night was our annual Timberwolves trip – a yearly excursion to the Target Center to see our favorite team in tough battle against the Minnesota juggernaught. Or, in the case of this season, the jugger-NOT. Ha!

Usually, I’m forced to watch my beloved Indiana Pacers lose horribly as they are outmanned, pushed around, and generally despoiled on the opposing court. In other words, they suck it up, leaving me wondering what exactly I got for my $40 ticket.

This year was different. We visited Kerrie’s team: the Phoenix Suns. And the Suns, if you haven’t noticed, actually play basketball as if they had practiced it once or twice in their lives. It was fun; a few hours of high-flying cavalcade. It was a far cry from the Skyforce.

One thing I have to admit – I never really fully understood how bad the sight lines are in the Sioux Falls Arena until I spent 15 straight games shuffling around to see in front of the tall guy in front of me, then experienced a real basketball stadium and witnessed the feat of engineering that is “true stadium seating.” We were fair way back – at the Arena, we’d have been about six feet above the roof – and we had a better view than our regular season seats offer from a sight perspective.

There’s one other thing I’m going to complain about – because, after all, isn’t that why I write about the Skyforce? I will go ahead and guarantee the Argus Leaders utter failure in getting a full story on the Skyforce game to print both tomorrow and Wednesday. This is a local team – one of our biggest. And we never get a full story. Rarely do we get a picture. Often, we get two paragraphs. The AP feed would offer more of a synopsis of the game. Does the city just not care? Or has the Argus deemed the Skyforce so low on the sports totem pole that high school wrestling warrants a section-wide overhaul, but the longest running Sioux Falls professional team can barely make it off of the “news and notes” column?

And the road coverage is even worse. When the Timberwolves go on the road, does the Star Tribune grab a few sentences from the AP wire and leave it at that? No. They send someone to cover the game. It’s kind of a big deal when your professional team enters into enemy territory. Now, I’m not asking the Argus to send someone out there – but shouldn’t someone at least listen to the game on the radio? Or go to the NBA D-League website and get some stats? Two longish sentences won’t cut it.

No wonder no one knows how the Skyforce – or any local professional team – are doing during the season.

Anyway, Tuesday night we’ll be at a seminar, so we’ll be missing that game as well. This comes at a most inconvenient time – we’re playing the Fort Worth Flyers – the team currently 1.5 games ahead of us for second place (and just one game out of first). Two wins puts us not only higher in the standings – it gives us a great shot at a first round bye and home court advantage.

So these games are kind of a big deal. Hopefully, the Argus will have a rousing recap of an important game. Or, maybe, we’ll just find the same thing we always do – two paragraphs, a “oh by the way” coverage and a general care of indifference. Of course, maybe it’s not their fault.

Maybe they can’t see for the sight lines either.

Tags: Basketball, Sioux Falls Skyforce, Sports |

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Two years and still running

February 20, 2007


I almost forgot that today is the two-year anniversary of the first Black Marks on Wood Pulp (or, as it was at that time, cdubblog) post.

The only reason I ever remember this is because it falls so close to the day that Hunter Thompson died. I see his name, I see the word “anniversary,” and I realize I’ve almost missed my own sort of cool anniversary.

So, yeah. Two years! Hoo-ray!

In honor of this event, check out the history of Black Marks on Wood Pulp - and all of its subtle differences - on the Wayback Machine web site. Unfortunately, there are no posts of the crucial “Black Period” that started it all.

Or, check out The First Post (and the rest of the first month, February 2005)

Tags: Blogging, Meta |

4 Comments

Happy Zachary Taylor Day!

February 19, 2007


Zachary Taylor, this year's President of the YearIt’s President’s Day. Which really means nothing to most of us. It’s a day created from the hollowed hulks of two former, separate holidays – Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s Birthday. This joining of birthdays came from a decision by businesses and government agencies around the nation who assumed we didn’t need two days off in February. Rather, it should be more like one.

For those of us not in education or governmental positions, we don’t get the day off anyway. So whatever.

Regardless, I figured I’d better find a President to celebrate. I didn’t want to pick someone easy – like FDR or Lincoln – and I certainly didn’t want to alienate many of my readers (including a certain fellow Sioux Falls blogger over at Gadgetopia) by choosing my personal favorite, Bill Clinton (who wins the “personal favorite” title by default – he’s the only President I’ve voted for that has actually won).

I thought it would be fun to choose the last President to run under the Whig party. Unfortunately, I realized I’d be celebrating the life of Millard Fillmore, and I hate being associated with something so close to current conserva-comic Mallard Fillmore – a comic that seems to be around so newspapers can seem “fair and balanced” when running Doonesbury cartoons.

So, instead, I am here to celebrate the second-to-last Whig President of the United States: Zachary Taylor, a man who (if organized alphabetically by first name) comes last on the list of Presidents, whose name reminds most of us of famed child actor Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and who only spent 16 months as President of the United States of America before dying (the third shortest in history).

Taylor’s accomplishments are few. His cause of death is unknown, for the most part – it could have been cholera, or it could have been something very similar to cholera, or it could have been heat stroke. All we know is that his last words, “I should not be surprised if this were to result in my death,” were as uneventful as his presidency.

So take a moment and celebrate this man – a man of whom we barely know anything and of whom we could hardly care.

(Edit: Of course, after making this selection, I realized that Taylor’s Vice President was the aforementioned Millard Fillmore. Drat! Foiled!)

Tags: Random |

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The roads oft travelled: Northgate

February 18, 2007


CanterburyBeing introduced to a new culture can be frightening, even if that culture mirrors the usual in nearly every way. It’s not the overall picture that strikes fear into one’s heart – it’s the subtle differences; the accent, the way the money feels, the cobblestone streets and old world feel.

This was the feeling in England. It was clandestine – hidden just below the conscience, a fear arose that helped drive each discovery. I went into every situation expecting everything to be completely different. And when it wasn’t, I was more open to the subtle changes therein. I learned to love that accent, that money, those streets.

One experience did move me into a different realm – an eating experience, actually. And it occurred in Canterbury, England, just blocks from Canterbury Cathedral, where my favorite story of British history occurred – the two-faced, pious and frustrating friendship between Archbishop Thomas Becket and King Henry Plantagenet, the second.

It occurred on Northgate.

It occurred at Gandhi Tandoori Classic Restaurant. It was my first Indian meal.

Northgate is one of many names for a major traffic/pedestrian road through the center of Canterbury. It is by no means a wide, multi-lane street - instead, it is more like a quiet path through the center of town. It is the backbone of Canterbury – the white line through the town’s Underground-Logo-shaped middle.

NorthgateNorthgate begins in the northeast, right where the north gate of Canterbury’s medieval wall still stands. As it travels southwest, it turns into The Borough, where it splits in two. One branch leads to King Street, which turns into Best Lane, which ends at Stour Street. The other branch turns into Palace Street, which turns into Burgate and curves to the east. It sounds complicated, but its not – imagine a tuning fork with one tong bent. That’s the layout. The multiple names confuse things, but it’s still the same path. I promise.

We traveled this path almost exclusively while perusing the middle part of Canterbury. This middle part was a circle of old England that touched upon every part of English village life.

Every stereotype was covered. Green gardens and river paths led to park bridges that held duck houses and swaying reeds. These bridges led to nearly abandoned graveyards, complete with thin crumbling tombstones aching to stay upright and grassy knolls that held Canterburians from centuries in the past. Cobbled streets turned around decaying walls, and buildings seemed placed almost at random, with no regard for direction or style.

This jumbled, charming mess of architecture is a fond memory. City planners were either non-existent or remarkably lax, allowing streets to wind without reason, perhaps leading to the random naming and haphazardly placed storefronts. A map is necessary in these small English towns. You could get lost easily. It’s not a horrible thing – after all, the center of Canterbury is rather small, and you’d end up at a recognizable landmark before too long – but there is no time to waste when experiencing the daily wonders of Canterburian life.

Canterbury CastleThe southwest end of this road (Stour Street) is just a half-block away from a crumbling Norman castle – Canterbury Castle, namely – and was found nearly by surprise. This hulking relic, a forgotten building from centuries past, is in horrible shape, the victim of erosion, weather, war and indifference.

When I think of the buildings that once occupied these spaces – the monstrous protective outposts – and think of everything that happened in and around the blocks that still remain, I’m amazed that I’m allowed to stand so close – with nothing but time separating me from the inner turmoil of Norman England.

Further up the road, where the split occurs, is Canterbury Cathedral (on Palace Street). This was the main attraction, obviously, and serves as a larger than life history lesson for most visitors. The Becket/Henry II story is one of the biggest in all of British history, but until a person stands in the corner where Becket was slain, peers upon the alter that once held Becket’s bones (before they were destroyed by Henry VIII) and considers the millions of people over hundreds of years that have made Canterbury their pilgrimage destination, the story seems unreal and fake. It’s that proximity that makes it real. I stood where the blood was shed – where Becket’s skull was cleaved. It was real. I could nearly see it.

Canterbury CathedralIt was getting to be dusk when we finally came upon Gandhi Tandoori. Kerrie made a point to remember its location, and even though I wasn’t necessarily up for trying anything new – it had been a long day (Chunnel to London, bus to Canterbury) and I was looking forward to our beautiful bed and breakfast room at London Guest House on London Road – I followed Kerrie back to what would become my first Indian meal.

We were seated near the back of the restaurant, next to a partition and close to the kitchen. We were far enough back from the front entrance to benefit from a lack of distraction, and we quickly ordered wine and dinner. The specialty was Balti sauce, a special mixture of Indian spices that is uncommon in most Indian restaurants.

I ordered a spinach Balti and waited, not knowing what to expect. I’d like to think I soaked up the sounds – in my mind, it’s a CD of classic Indian music, accented with the smells of curry and other spices. I imagine our wine was good, and I imagine we spoke about our day, what we would do next, how we would make it to Alnwick, England in a few days – where Kerrie would remain as I trooped back to London and, from there, back to the States. I imagine everything was perfect.

I can’t remember, though. My mind remembers just one thing from that night – the food. It arrived on some of the most beautiful metal cookware I’ve ever seen – small silver/copper colored bowls with flames underneath for the sauce, a larger bowl for our rice. The sauce was amazing – cooked with enough spice to deliver a shock to my palate while creamy enough to continue eating without aplomb, oblivious to the rest of the world, uncaring of manners or speech.

Balti, dish, etc.So this is Indian food, I thought. This is what I’ve been missing. Our small Minnesotan city didn’t offer this to us, and the idea of seeking out Indian food in Minneapolis was as foreign as the food itself. It was amazing, it was edgy, and I loved it.

The rest of Canterbury was a blur after that night. We may have left with food in Styrofoam boxes, but to this day I can’t imagine we left anything to waste. The gentle buzz of a half-bottle of wine sent us floating through the now dark streets, and the winding roads welcomed us back. We giggled and marveled at the small-town-at-night feeling we were suddenly sucked into, and by the time we made it back to the B&B, we were ready to watch some basic BBC and call it a night, filled with some of the best food ever cooked and prepared to travel, yet again.

My time in Canterbury was spent learning and loving everything about small town England. And even though the town itself is widely known and more touristy than most small towns, it still gave a great contrast when compared to Paris or London.

My time in Canterbury also taught me about the beauty of ethnic food – of eating things that don’t come naturally. I try to eat Indian whenever I can. But try as I may, I’ve never been able to find any restaurant that serves Indian the same way they did in Canterbury that day.

That’s the thing. When we imagine a perfect night, we drop out anything that proves the contrary. Of course I’m never going to find a Balti dish just like the one at Gandhi Tandoori. And I’m not really supposed to. Otherwise, what else would make that first meal so special?

Tags: The Roads Oft Traveled, Travel |

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