The Undertones - Wednesday Week

Of Montreal - Disconnect The Dots

Prefab Sprout - Looking for Atlantis

If you're looking for Atlantis You should cast your eye on me Put your two and two together Don't you know who built Atlantis Then returned to the sea Don't you know who owns the weather ? Rain or shine Sure is good to seek a challenge Sure is fine to set your sights Sure is foolish to be blinded There are legions out there churching Searching for the holy grail Isn't one of them can find it All this time You should be loving someone And you know who it must be Cause you'll never find Atlantis Til you make that someone me You should be loving someone And you know who it must be Cause you'll never find Atlantis Til you make that someone me Say you do find your volcano and the darn thing is still hot Lesson one Child don't waste it Lesson two The world's your cherry But tomorrow ? Maybe not Lesson three Come on and taste it All this time You should be loving someone And you know who it must be Cause you'll never find Atlantis Til you make that someone me You should be loving someone And you know who it must be Cause you'll never find Atlantis Til you make that someone me

Paul Collins' Beat - Walking Out on Love

Frank Black - The Hostess with the Mostest

Wire - Outdoor Miner

No blind spots in the leopard's eyes Can only help to jeopardize The lives of lambs, the shepherd cries An afterlife for a silverfish Eternal dust less ticklish Than the clean room, a houseguest's wish He lies on his side, is he trying to hide? In fact it's the earth, which he's known since birth Face worker, a serpentine miner A roof falls, an underliner Of leaf structure, the egg timer

The Stone Roses - Sally Cinnamon

XTC - Making Plans For Nigel

La historia del rock es cruel. Eleva hasta el olimpo de la concha del mono de oro a bandas que con suerte tienen dos o tres discos rescatables (a ustedes los estoy mirando, Udos), y deja en un tercer plano a bandas que, en un mundo más justo, deberían formar parte de la currícula escolar de cualquier establecimiento educativo medianamente serio.  

Una de esas bandas, sin duda, es XTC. Responsable, en gran medida, de tender el puente entre el nerviosismo anguloso del post-punk y el revival brit-pop de principios de los '90, atravesaron una gloriosa -gloriosa para ellos, por lo menos- década de los '80. En aquellos desolados tiempos de reaganomics, estos freaks liderados por un anteojudo con pánico escénico (debieron abandonar temprano las presentaciones en vivo, seguro eso explica parte de su falta de difusión) se dieron el gusto de humillar a todos haciendo un pop de altísima gama, en el que confluyen fríos sintetizadores, arrebatos pastorales, psicodelia sobresaturada, cocktail jazz desvíado, ska robótico y no sé cuántas cosas más, siempre todo sostenido por esa clase de melodías que te pegan una piña, tiran un golpe al aire a propósito para distraerte, y proceden a noquearte sin contemplaciones. Y ni hablemos de las letras. Si bien dije en algún post anterior que para mí la letra es una dimensión secundaria en el pop, sobre todo cuando nos cantan en otro idioma, no soy tan boludo como para no reconocer que las de Andy Partridge -líder y principal compositor- son gloriosas: llenas de ironía, humor anglo, vocabulario exhaustivo, referencias literarias y una honestidad nerd desarmante, no hacen más que sumar al éxtasis tremendo que provoca  XTC. 

¿Por dónde empezar con XTC, entonces? Quizá una fija sea "Skylarking", su clásico disco de mediados de los '80, y luego ir para atrás o para adelante (tienen un montón de discos, algunos más difíciles, todos excelentes). Pero recomendaría "Nonsuch", del '92, el más amable para oídos desacostumbrados al pop excéntrico de esta banda. Y cuando lleguen a "Apple Venus Volume 1", el anteúltimo disco (hace tiempo que la banda no da señales de vida, y el fiel compañero de Andy y compositor de algunos de los mejores temas de XTC, Colin Moulding, habría decidido abandonar la música), verán -escucharán- que a veces el cielo está más cerca de lo que creemos, y que separar la pajota del trigo -aunque lleve horas y ojos rojos- garpa como loco, cuando se trata de buscar algo nuevo para escuchar en este océano inconmesurable que es internet.

King Crimson - XXI Century Schizoid Man

Cat's foot iron claw
Neuro-surgeons scream for more
At paranoia's poison door.
Twenty first century schizoid man.

Blood rack barbed wire
Polititians' funeral pyre
Innocents raped with napalm fire
Twenty first century schizoid man.

Death seed blind man's greed
Poets' starving children bleed
Nothing he's got he really needs
Twenty first century schizoid man.

The Decemberists - 16 Military Wives

Sixteen military wives
Thirty-two softly focused brightly colored eyes
Staring at the natural tan
of thirty-two gently clenching wrinkled little hands
Seventeen company men
Out of which only twelve will make it back again
Sergeant sends a letter to five
Military wives, whose tears drip down through ten little eyes

Cheer them on to their rivals
Cause America can, and America can't say no
And America dies, if America says it's so
It's so!

And the anchorperson on TV goes...
La de da de da

Fifteen celebrity minds
Leading their fifteen sordid wretched checkered lives
Will they find the solution in time
Using their fifteen pristine moderate liberal minds?

Eighteen academy chairs
Out of which only seven really even care
Doling out the garland to five
Celebrity minds, they're humbly taken by surprise

Cheer them on to their rivals
Cause America can, and America can't say no
And America dies, if America says it's so
It's so!

And the anchorperson on TV goes...
La de da de da de-dadedade-da
La de da de da de-dadedade-da

Fourteen cannibal kings
Wondering blithely what the dinner bell will bring
Fifteen celebrity minds
Served on a leafy bed OF sixteen military wives

Cheer them on to their rivals
Cause America can, and America can't say no
And America dies, if America says it's so
It's so!

And the anchorperson on TV goes...
La de da de da de-dadedade-da
La de da de da de-dadedade-da
La de da de da de-dadedade-da-dedadeda-de de dadede-daaaaa

Julian Casablancas - 11th Dimension

Built To Spill - You Were Right

You were wrong when you said

Everything's gonna be allright

You were wrong when you said

Everything's gonna be alright

You were right when you said

All that glitters isn't gold

You were right when you said

All we are is dust in the wind

You were right when you said

We are all just bricks in the wall

And when you said manic depression's a frustrating mess

You were wrong when you said

Everything's gonna be alright

You were wrong when you said

Everything's gonna be alright

You were right when you said

You can't always get what you want

You were right when you said

It's a hard rain's gonna fall

You were right when you said

We're still running against the wind

And life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone

You were right when you said

This is the end

Do you ever think about it?

Do you ever think about it?

Do you ever think about it?

Do you ever think about it?

Can - I'm So Green

And it’s all the pain that men hold

Looking for her, shouldn’t speak,

Just like ending my home,

Smiling face like having

Trace lights becoming a burning,

Trace lights they got home,

Trace lights that make you make a home again,

Trace lights bring back hair.

Yes, I feel everything,

I’m so green, I’m so green,

“Yes, I feel everything” you say,

Yes, I feel as you say.

Trace lights, they’re just going short all the time,

Take back beginning, sense to grey.

I’m so green, yes, I’m so green,

I’m so green, I’m so green.

I feel everything,

“I feel everything” you say,

“I feel everything” you hear,

“I feel everything” you hear,

I’m gonna get them.

I feel everything,

I feel everything,

I feel everything,

Live the place with the gold,

Live the place with the gold,

Live the place with the gold,

Live the place with the gold,

I feel the end,

I feel the end,

With the place, it’s there you go,

With the place, it’s the end.

Remember, step for the sound,

I feel heaven, step for the sound,

I feel heaven’s stay for the sound,

I feel heaven’s splendour eleans the step,

I feel heaven’s splendour eleans the step,

I feel heaven’s splendour eleans the step,

I feel heaven’s splendour eleans the step.

The Fiery Furnaces - We Got Back The Plague

That easy going man of blood

Mucking about in the McLennan County mud

If you're hoping he won't, well course then he must

Driving his truck through the McLennan County dust

I read in my book on Sunday afternoon

So it's easy to think the end's coming soon

But though sometimes the signs from heaven are vague

Early November we got back the plague

While beautiful Laura's sweeping the porch

He's teleconferencing up his operation torch

And I don't care if he bombs Babylon to hell

Except for he's building Babylon here as well

I read in my book on Sunday afternoon

So it's easy to think the end's coming soon

But though sometimes the signs from heaven are vague

Early November we got back the plague

Waking up in Cedar Rapids looking for allies

Praising his leaches and looking for likewise

Down in St. Charles local talent he hawks

I read in my book on Sunday afternoon

So it's easy to think the end's coming soon

But though sometimes the signs from heaven are vague

Early November we got back the plague

In Northern Virginia on their excursions

L.U.V. in with all their diversions

Horns for hounds & spurs for horses

Release the committed Seventy-Two hour task forces

I read in my book on Sunday afternoon

So it's easy to think the end's coming soon

But though sometimes the signs from heaven are vague

Early November we got back the plague

Bentonville and Dalas with gasoline douse

Then back to Crawford going over to the firehouse

Behind the curtains not turning much of a trick

Sicking ourselves to make ourselves sick

I read in my book on Sunday afternoon

So it's easy to think the end's coming soon

But though sometimes the signs from heaven are vague

Early November we got back the plague

That easy going man of blood

Mucking out in the McLelland County mud

If you're hoping he won't well course then he must

Digging us down under the McLellan County dust

Buddy Holly - Heartbeat

Heartbeat
why do you miss when my baby kisses me
heartbeat - why does a love kiss stay in my memory

Piddle dee pat - I know that new love thrills me
I know that true love will be

Heartbeat
why do you miss when my baby kisses me

Heartbeat
why do you skip when my baby's lips meet mine
heartbeat
why do you flip then give me a skip beat sign

Piddle dee pat - and sing to me love stories
and bring to me love's glories
Heartbeat
why do you miss when my baby kisses me

¿Y qué songorongo querrá decir "Piddle dee pat"?  ¿Es la onomatopeya de ese latido del corazón que se ausenta cuando su chica lo besa? Puede ser. O puede que no. ¿Importa acaso? Creo que en ese sinsentido (por la misma época estaba también el "a-wop-bop-a-loo-lop a-lop bam boo", y años después vino el "naaa, na na, na na na na, na na na na, Hey Jude", y en el medio tantos otros, y después otros tantos, y bla bla bla) reside gran parte de lo que encuentro glorioso en el rock. Porque ahí, en ese punto en donde no se puede articular el sentimiento en palabras, en donde no queda otra que reducir el lenguaje a su pura materialidad sonora, rebanándole las cadenas tiránicas del significado (porque el significado es papá y mamá, es el trabajo, es la sociedad, es el sistema bla bla), ahí se da la pelea. Y no contra el sistema ni ninguna de esas boludeces, eh: esa está perdidísima de hace rato. La pelea es contra quienes creen que las letras son más importantes que la música, contra los que necesitan que les pasen un mensaje decodificable en tres minutos, y son muy pajeros como para sentarse y ponerse a leer. No, señores, no es así, y en ésta me planto: la letra NUNCA es más importante. Y si lo es, algo anda mal. Por eso, banco a los Hanson cuando cantan

Mmm bop, ba duba dop
ba du bop, ba duba dop
ba du bop, ba duba dop
ba du

Imagínense la sarta de boludeces que hubieran puesto en ese estribillo, si se les hubiera ocurrido usar palabras. Así está mejor. Pero dejen de leer mis zonceras y escuchen el "Piddle dee pat" de Buddy, que ahí está todo dicho. 

The Flamin' Groovies - Shake Some Action

Si la música fuese un planeta (el "Planet of Sound" que chillaba Black Francis), seguro el Power-Pop ligaría un país. Sus habitantes vivirían en una eterna adolescencia tachonada de granos, engullendo hamburguesas a más no poder y paseándose en scooters, con la cabeza siemprepuesta en esas chicas que les humedecen la noche en las zonas bajas y que no dan el brazo a torcer, pero les tuercen las almas sin piedad y sin respiro.

Si el Power-Pop fuese un país, esta canción seguramente no sería el himno. Pero debería serlo.

O estar en la discusión, al menos. 

I will find a way

To get to you some day.

Oh, but I, babe, I'm so afraid I'll fall, yeah.

Now can't you hear me call?

Shake some action's what I need

To let me bust out at full speed.

I'm sure that's all you need

To make it all right.

It's taken me so long

To get where I belong

Oh, but, oh, please don't send me back that way, yeah.

For I will make you pay.

If you don't dig what I say

Then I will go away.

And I won't come back this again. No.

'Cause I don't need a friend.

Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros - Home

Aunque me suele costar la desconfianza de algunos amigos músicos, tengo que admitir que soy propenso a leer críticas de rock. No calculé el promedio, pero a buena parte de mi colección llegué a través de recomendaciones de críticos (tema para otra entrada, que ya abordó Carreira con sus Talking Heads: ¿cómo llegamos a nuestras bandas favoritas?).

Sin embargo, hay algunas bandas a las que nunca, nunca, nunca, jamás habría conocido, si sólo hubiera leído la “crítica especializada”. Edward Sharpe es una de ellas.

Dijo Pitchfork: “Una mentira”, “inmemorable, lavado y artificial”, “extraña yuxtaposición de ideas inconclusas”, “un hippie al que le falta humanidad”.

Y digo yo (y mi chica, y quince tipitos que saltamos como posesos la tardecita en la que, totalmente fuera de contexto, tocaron por acá): “Oooh, let me come hoooome / home is wherever i’m with youuuuuu...”

Islands - The Kids Don't Know Shit

Lungs love holes escaping words you know
Smoke gets in your eyes still blowing in the wind
And we can't beat this cancer, can we?
Answer me

Kids don't know shit
Everything they've learned is wrong
Boys in the neighborhood are fit
'Cause they fight all night long

Kids don't know it
But everything they've touched is gone
'Cause no one understands
You can't stand under something that's all wrong

When you're facing the day
When you're wasting away
And you get lighter than your brain
And it grows tighter everyday


Love's lungs hold air to blow a hole
Cold chest grows, fills up with smoke
At least your head is warm
Still forming ways to warm the baby, the baby's bed

'Cause kids don't know shit
Everything they've learned is wrong
And the girls on the block are listening in
They sing let's get strong

Kids don't know it
But everything they've got is gone
We used it for some fuel and food
Then the rats took it from us and made a bomb

Words love holes
Getting lost in lies we know
Still believing branches weaving forests
Leaving helps them grow

Kids don't know shit
Everything we learned was wrong
Alright, deep down we knew it
We always knew it all along

Nebular splendor
I'll remember those constellations forever
A cursory person turns to me and says
Well, you won't live forever

Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons - The Night

Este es el tema que al cantante de Belle & Sebastian lo hace levantarse de su asiento y bailar en una fiesta. Si no conocen a Belle & Sebastian, avisamos: no esperen un bombo en negras. Pero la línea del bajo debería ser declarada patrimonio de la humanidad.