LEST WE FORGET - CYMBALS EAT GUITARS

Cymbals Eat Guitars recently appeared on Pitchfork’s Don’t Look Down concert series (embedded above), which placed the quartet atop New York City’s skyline while they performed a rowsing set of songs from their beloved Why There Are Mountains.

Already halfway through the year there have been several exceptional albums immediately deserving of the lavish praise being hurled upon them. Some of the bands responsible for composing these impressive works are esteemed musical veterans, while others are wide-eyed newcomers to the scene. One of the most pleasant surprises to find its way into my library is the debut album by Cymbals Eat Guitars. Based in Staten Island, the band is yet to be signed by a label, which is a crying shame considering their freshman effort has easily become one of my favorite records. The album, entitled Why There Are Mountains, is frenetic yet earnest, containing nine deeply compelling songs that forceably launch the listener upwards with each wrenching crescendo. Lead singer Joseph D’Agostino’s demeanor may seem serene sometimes, but don’t let the fading façade fool you: he belts out a rebel yell when the proper moment arrives. His lyrics imagine sauntering excursions past suburban neighborhoods and sprawling landscapes, recounting those past escapades through hindsight with frightening fervor. Why There Are Mountains sets the bar absurdly high for any future output from the four-piece. Fortunately, two new songs have recently appeared online and are embedded for you below. “Tunguska” and “Plainclothes” indicate immense promise and ensure that Cymbals Eat Guitars is far from finished.

AN ALARMING DISCOVERY
  • Me: Why does Caroline think that I hate her?
  • Lindsay: Most people think that you hate them.
  • Me: That's legitimate.
WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM, OFFICER?

When my parents start to tell stories involving my early childhood, it initiates this eerie sensation, almost like an out-of-body experience.  I cannot help but feel confused as I struggle to place these events in my memory. They sound incredibly put-on and not even remotely based in reality. Nevertheless, they are indeed true. My spotty recollection has become an abominable hindrance and leaves me fumbling for a witty afterthought. I am afraid that I have come to resemble an elderly gentleman with a terrific case of dementia.

A few short weeks ago, my father was asked to share a story about his daughter during a luncheon coordinated for aspiring debutantes. He told a heartwarming tale of courage and faith that left everyone else in tears. The next day, he went over this account, now reminded of a slightly twisted story about his son, back when I was young and dumb. He narrated a tale that I might have been ashamed of had I not been too busy howling with laughter.

When I was young, my dad would be gone for considerable chunks of time as he went out on the road. He traveled a great deal, being a high-ranking salesman for a prestigious jewellery company. I would receive phone calls from my father who would be in different parts of the country at various times throughout the day. I never questioned his loyalty and knew that he worked diligently to allow me certain privileges. At such an age, I did not mind the lengthy separation because the time we did spend together was always treated as a special occasion. When he stayed home, I became part of a crack squad that ran errands around town, gleefully sitting in the back of Dad’s sedan behind wildly obtrusive child restraints.

One afternoon, on the way back home from Greer, my father forcefully grabbed the rear-view mirror. His eyes bulged as his face grew a dark shade of red. He mouthed some harsh consonants and slowed the car as not to provoke any further consequence. Local law enforcement had flipped on their sirens and signaled my father to pull over.

He knew that any denial would end in disaster. “Son of a bitch! I knew that I was speeding. What the hell am I going to do?” groaned my father as he strangled the steering wheel in frustration. I sat motionless, unaware of the situation’s gravity, silently enjoying the spectacle like it were a stageplay being performed for my benefit. The office strode up to the car with a late-afternoon malaise, as if we were wasting his valuable time. My father quickly rolled down the window, yielding to the patrolman’s request for license and registration.

“I’m sorry, Officer. I don’t live far from here and I must have taken my eyes off the speedometer for a couple of seconds. I honestly had no idea that I was speeding.”

As if on cue, there came an exuberant cry from the backseat.

“Yeah, you did, Daddy! You knew you were speeding! You just got through saying it!”

The officer cocked his head towards the rear, then back at my father, who was desperately trying to conceal his unabashed embarassment. A smile slowly slide across the officer’s face.

“Slow it down, buddy,” said the patrolman. He handed back the paperwork, shook his head in sly disbelief and walked calmly back to his cruiser.

"The film has come under attack for its explicit sexuality, including the opening scene showing a toddler falling to its death while Dafoe and Gainsbourg have sex on a bed nearby. Included in the Cannes version was a graphic close-up shot of a penis entering a vagina. In one controversial scene, Gainsbourg masturbates Dafoe until he ejaculates blood. Gainsbourg later knocks Dafoe unconscious and drills a hole in his thigh to bolt him to a grindstone. She then hits Dafoe’s testicles with a wooden plank so hard that it is implied they are torn off. Later, Gainsbourg cuts off her own clitoris with a pair of rusty scissors."
— Description of Lars von Trier’s The Aristocrats Antichrist.
I would pay an obscene amount of money for this. How much do kidneys go for nowadays?

I would pay an obscene amount of money for this. How much do kidneys go for nowadays?

"I hope that you die in a decent pair of shoes. You got a lot more walking to do where you’re going to."
— Spencer Krug
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Samuel Beam (Iron & Wine) is a remarkable musician. I own all three of his LPs. He also contributed a beautiful piece to Dark Was the Night, but that’s not what I’m raving about. “The Trapeze Swinger” features some of the best songwriting Beam has ever put to tape, complete with woozy background vocals and nimble finger-picking. I’m partial to the lo-fi, stripped down production of the earlier bootleg, but I won’t split hairs: it’s still breathtaking.

MY LIFE IN MUSIC

Inspired by a feature in Spin magazine, I compiled a list of albums that have greatly influenced me over the years, shaping me into who I am today. This is part one of a ten-part series.

Bright Eyes - I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning

I own few physical records. Their purchase is meant as a show of support for the artist, somehow reciprocating the sense of appreciation I feel. This album has guided me through countless experiences involving intimacy and isolation. My romantic disposition is often challenged as a deeply cynical perspective emerges from the more darker recesses. The record has been a dependable companion, one I can always count on in a time of need.

A careful inspection of my music library would result in a strange discovery: one of my favorite artists can only lay claim to a single record therein. Conor Oberst, 29, is perhaps most recognizable as the lead singer and principal songwriter of Bright Eyes and subsequently the Mystic Valley Band. He has overseen production on more than a dozen full-lengths throughout his relatively short career. While Oberst’s creative spirit is admirable, it does not place him beyond reproach. It must be conceded that a majority of those releases have been sub-par, if not woefully disappointing. Oberst is often the subject of increased expectations due to the perceived potential of his poetic sensibilities, garnering him several comparisons to Bob Dylan. Unfortunately, Oberst has never attained such a level of excellence and only once stolen a brief glimpse, most likely at the bottom of a bottle.

I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning benefits from being his most cohesive work. Oberst can be heard in the background, sipping his ice-cold beverage as the tape begins. What follows is a recitation of an alarming short story, which branches into the album’s opener: a spirited folk ballad decrying the ills of society. “We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell. / Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell,” Oberst clamors during “At the Bottom of Everything.” The song sets a high bar that is matched, if not eclipsed, by the rest of the album. I’m Wide Awake also contains magnetic themes that range from pre-conflict angst and substance abuse to being consumed by feelings of deep affection. His lyrics are instantly explicit and seemingly simplistic but gather meaning with each successive verse. “And I know you have a heavy heart. / I can feel it when we kiss. / So many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift it,” he laments during “Lua.”

Oberst’s strained vocals flow into adeptly orchestrated tunes that feature heavy introspective deprecation as well as politically tinged venom. “And the whole world must watch the sad, comic display. / If you’re free start running away, ‘cause we’re coming for ya!” mocks Oberst while a patriotic horn plays ironically in the background. Back-up singers bolster the melody of several songs, three of which include the timeless sighs of songbird Emmylou Harris. Her delicate demeanor adds a layer intricacy without compromising the accessibility. “And for a ten-minute dream in the passenger seat, the world was flying by. / I haven’t been gone very long, but it feels like a lifetime,” the duo sings through “We Are Nowhere and It’s Now”.

If there were any suspicion of pretense, Oberst eviscerates such notions by acknowledging his flaws and sends his band into a cacophonous rage to close the album. “I could have been a famous singer, if I had someone else’s voice. / But failure’s always sounded better. / Let’s fuck it up, boys! Make some noise!” I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning will be remembered as an articulate perspective upon the marked polarity of human existence. While one may be steeped in despair, his peer could be filled with insurmountable joy. The only argument that may be asymmetrical in delivery is the potential for greatness that is possessed by all. I’m Wide Awake stands as the flash of brilliance that proved Oberst’s own worth.

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