Saturday, December 29, 2007

Transcendentalism with the Turn-Ons

As I sat uncomfortably on my black leather couch moments ago, surrounded by dudes hollering at each movement of the football game on TV, and suffering from carburetor-like hearts rattles and fuming stomach exhaust thanks to the uncharacteristic decision to drink coffee, I yearned for the comfort of just one thing -- and it wasn't a girl: I already fucked that one up. It was the glossy, hallow, hook laden tunes of the Turn-Ons, a band from Seattle introduced to me by my sister's husband Damon -- a guru of little-know acts, steeped in cherished nuggets of musical info.

Though their first album is a lo-fi, acoustic-driven nod to T. Rex, it's the Turn-Ons' next set -- the highly melodious, lushly written and produced 'East' -- which defined a joyous era of my life: the summer between junior and senior year in college when I had my first apartment in Seattle, a gorgeous, motivated, and intelligent girlfriend, and an internship at 'Tablet,' an inner-city, liberal arts and culture magazine.

With a reverb drenched, shoegazery sonic rooted in simplistic yet refined indie rock songwriting, the Turn-Ons allow comfort in pain, and ease any situation with a viscous coating of majors, minors, and sevenths. Their tunes came to define the squalor of my small basement apartment (a popular lyrical topic -- Read "Skyscrappers" and "Sideways"), the inner workings of my relationships, and predominantly narrated -- in both melody and lyric -- my ever move that summer; In retrospect, I can hear the fluid, hazy riffs and murky piano melodies as I dove into Lake Washington at night and paddled into the glimmering, animated panes of water; walked across Seattle Center beneath the Space Needle at night, inhaling the summery air between my teeth; when my eyes burst all over my then girlfriend's colorful, kaleidescope-like skirts; and sank my toes in the sand at the beach, watching the sun sink, strumming my guitar as wooden morsels cackled and shot from smoky bonfires.

Ever since, the Turn-Ons have released a few more records, 'Parallels,' and soon, 'Death to God.' Both have a similar sonic -- again, one layered in near-arena filling chorus hooks, and endearing, gorgeous verses and Travis Devries tinny, drawn out and emoting vocals. But sadly -- despite numerous national tours, including spots opening for successful acts, and some national press -- this band have never garnered the praise and credit they deserve.

Now, though I sit on a raggedy, brash steel chair roughly twenty feet from the clamor in my living room, where dudes continue to high-five and clang beers and fucking scream at the top of their lungs (the Jets and the Patriots are tied I guess), I'm comfortable, and feel a million miles away -- well, actually about 3,000. When I close my eyes I'm transported back to the plastic blow up mattress of my basement apartment, where I lay on my college-bought blue duvet cover, peering down the space's narrow hallway, over my record collection and long-sold Fender Rhodes electric piano, and out the window at the black berry patches of urban Seattle, wondering what will happen next.

Here's one of the more rockin' tracks from 'East': "Neighborhood Killer"




Here's a tune more characteristic of the band's overall sound -- "Stop Waiting" off 'Parallels'



Check out the Turn-Ons' MySpace page.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Christmas...

I arrived back to Brooklyn from my Christmas vacation in Seattle just a few hours ago. It's nice to be back, sure, but being back home was splendid, and I will miss it and all the trimmings -- family, friends, food, conversation, sitting in the hot tub, and the rural environment of my parent's house way up near the San Juan islands.

During my trip home I traveled down to Portland for the Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks concert -- it was excellent. The material from his forthcoming record, 'Real Emotional Trash,' is pretty awesome, and a total departure. Most songs push the 9-10 minute mark but oddly still retain pop qualities -- still humable, still catchy, still groovy, and naturally, still hilarious in lyrical content. The show was at the Doug Fir Lounge, which is attached to the Jupiter Hotel. My friends and I stayed at the hotel, and the next morning walked around the city, hit a lot of record and clothing shops for a little Christmas shopping.

Today as been an exhausting day in terms of travel. At 3:45 AM PST, I boarded a shuttle bus way up in the Puget Sound, on Whidbey Island, where my parents live. It was snowing and the little shuttle rolled down the highway with a sleeping crew of passengers. With a blinking red light inside, it felt like a submarine. We then boarded the ferry boat and crossed the ocean. Every time I ride one of these huge boats I'm reminded of how much I love the ocean. I have many fond memories of riding the ferry boat, sometimes boarding on foot, others while driving my car. This morning, the Puget Sound was engulfed in a thick misty haze, and a sleet/snow fell all the way to the airport, where I boarded a plane bound for Newark at 8 AM. Now I'm in Brooklyn, sitting in my freshly cleaned apartment, once again part of the bustling city. I miss the leisure of Washington, the highways, and traveling large distances even to accomplish the most mundane of tasks -- the closest grocery store to my parent's place is at least fifteen miles. Needless to say, but between Portland, Whidbey Island, and all the bouncing around in Seattle, I traveled many miles. It felt great in contrast of the intricate, yet short-in-distance movements in NYC. From my bed to work, is not much more than two miles -- the most traveling I do in an average day.

But I arrive back fresh, and ready to dip right back into city life, with new mindset, and looking forward to the New Year. Plus I had my teeth cleaned, they're all ready too!

Sunday, December 16, 2007

The sound of walking in snow...

This Radio Dept. song, "Pulling Our Weight," was presented to me last winter courtesy of the 'Marie Antoinette' soundtrack and quickly became a staple as the snow fell throughout the season. The tune has stayed with me since, reminding of late night saunters home, and now that winter has returned, its factory-pressing beats and thick, dreamy melodies have upped their presence narrating days just like today: cloudy, the city engulfed in a viscous mist, dreary and wet yet comfortable, the day recovering in just-above-freezing temps from the sideways snowfalls of the night before. It belongs to the winter.

Weekend synopsis: Happy Birthday Vern

From bowling to last call, this weekend was all about celebrating my roommate Vernon Jones' 27th birthday. The man's disheveled, constant drunkenness is an amazing feat of stamina, and this weekend was the pinnacle. Today, in fact this afternoon, I was body slammed, picked up by Vern and mid-rise dropped to the floor while watching TV in my pajamas -- these are the sure signs of Vern's love I endure. Aaron Knight, Vern's good pal from Cleveland, is in town to help celebrate, which we did to the fullest. Thanks to Vern, and his fine taste in whiskey, Dublin is dry, and smiles are beaming all around. Happy birthday, dick!

Friday, December 14, 2007

WHAM!

Somewhere Patrick Bateman argues in favor of this tune's superior pop foundations as compared to Lindsey Lohan's tween lifecycle.

Welcome underlings!

Hello drivers on the vast super-highway of the ill-informed!

Today is the beginning of a new era, the era of Grombleberries. The era in which I, Grombleberries, break the rules, tag value to misinformed and astute opinions (!), and basically say what's what, and, naturally, you listen.

Between now and my next post, I request but one task: Define your own American dream, and conjure images of every component of it -- music, books, politics, sex, food, etc... Though this blog will predominantly serves as a critical platform for pop-culture, I ask readers (are there any yet?) to get a lil' philosophical. Get deep my friends, slam poetry -- get as deep as the ocean blue. Whoa, deep.

Until next time my disciples. As expected, the second coming is imminent, be prepared. I'll be back sooner than you think.

-- Grombleberries.

P.S. Listen to WHAM's "Last Christmas." 'Tis the season.