Woke up to “Backwater” by the Meat Puppets this morning. Off of their 1994 album, Too High To Die. Released shortly after their new found mainstream popularity as a result of appearing on MTV Unplugged with Nirvana. The single of “Lake of Fire” off that sitting is, in fact, a cover of the Meat Puppets song. The ensuing disc was incidentally the last recording Nirvana made. Kurt Cobain died about 4 months later.

“Backwater” is the Meat Puppets’ only single to make it on to the charts, but they’re a band that has consistently flown just below the radar. They started out as a punk/hardcore band and evolved into using country elements and eventually into a sort of grunge hybrid. They are easy to listen to, it’s not as sharp on the ears as Nirvana can be, and the music itself is relatively upbeat, even when the lyrics aren’t.

This song reminds me of JLM. I stole the CD from him the last time I went to Jacksonville this summer before the move, because I couldn’t get the song out of my head and it’s not available on iTunes. Meat Puppets always remind me of him, because Nirvana always reminds me of him. I listened to this song on repeat about 10 times on the way home that day.

The lyrics remind me of him, too, in a comforting sort of way. In the backwater swirling, there are some things that will never change. The more things change, the more they stay the same, right? I think it’s recognizing that pattern that allows you to move forward. Carry the good and leave the bad.

—–

For more information on Meat Puppets, visit meatpuppets.com.

As a music lover, a fan of Grace, and as someone who knows that “Hallelujah” existed before this sacrilege and even before Buckley himself covered Leonard Cohen’s original, Jeff Buckley’s version is the one that makes my heart grow three sizes with each time I hear it; he was an undeniably talented songsmith, musician, and overall talent.

On May 29th, 1997 Jeff Buckley died. Though I was… young, I was old enough to feel the weight of his passing and what it meant to the music community. Because we feature so many singer-songwriters here on Audioholic Media, that weight continues to resonate in every interview we conduct and every album we venerate.

He incontrovertibly raised the bar for musicians everywhere, from your favorite modern-day singer-songwriter to the 15-year-old learning new chords in his parents’ garage. His contributions are innumerable, and his Grace played a considerable role in encouraging today’s musicians to find the magic and poetry in even the darkest and most grievous of losses.

Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run.

Jeff Buckley, November 17, 1966 – May 29, 1997.

—–

For more information on Jeff Buckley, visit jeffbuckley.com.

I remember distinctly the first time I ever heard Death Cab for Cutie. It was senior year of high school and I was sitting on Map’s bedroom floor working on a project for our sociology class when “We Laugh Indoors” came on. I remember thinking that it sounded completely different from anything else I was listening to at the time– though now Minus the Bear is occasionally reminiscent of them– and I remember thinking that it felt like a moment, like a place, and thinking that it sounds like the sort of song that plays the moment you know that something in your life has just shifted irrevocably. I also have some rather vivid memories of a different scene when that song was playing and life was changing indeed. Anyway, I’ve always really loved that song, and even though I wouldn’t say that Death Cab is one of my favorite bands, I have a certain fondness for them, wrought in large part through boys I have loved that have loved them.

It’s one of those bands that goes through a stylistic evolution every few years and gains or loses fans along the way. I think it’s a natural progression (I don’t believe in the “selling out” argument for anyone) and for me, their new stuff just doesn’t catch me in the gut the way their old did. (I truly despise “Soul Meets Body,” but I really love three other songs on Plans so maybe that’s not a good example). Death Cab is easy on the ears. It varies from mellow to slightly trippy and it sounds like its been stripped down and reworked. It says more by what it doesn’t say than what it does.

Someone burned me a live copy of We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes a few years ago and I have just about worn the thing out. Something about the album live brings out so much more depth and emotion than any of their (albeit good) studio work. “Title Track” is by far my favorite song on the album (actually, I’m about 90% sure it’s my favorite Death Cab song, period) and in no small part because it is incredibly bare. Raw, even. Ben Gibbard sounds less in control of his usually emotionless voice and the lyrics on this song are just not to be believed. “Talking how the group had begun to splinter, and I can taste your lipstick on the filter.”

It’s romanticizes the unromantic. There’s no love in this song, but it’s got a life. It feels real, living and breathing. You know how when you hit bottom you can laugh at anything? This song feels just like that moment. When you’re so down-and-out that you simply don’t care, you just want to clutch at anything you can lay your hands on. It’s about the moment, the desperation, the beauty in running with it. Even if you regret it in the morning.

This is a song that I frequently put on at the end of the day. Most of the time, it inspires me to write something, though occasionally I’ll just lay, listen, and let my thoughts scatter. And every so often, when I’m feeling particularly restless, I will dance, and I will wait.

“…Either the music comes first and the lyrics are added, or music and lyrics come together. Only once have the lyrics been written down first- ‘Wish You Were Here’. But this is unusual; it hasn’t happened before.” – Roger Waters

This is another song that I heard whilst flipping through radio stations on the drive to Charleston with Jimmy. It’s sometimes difficult to write about bands that have been around forever, because what is there to be said that hasn’t been said before? Or better? Or by someone who is actually qualified to form some sort of educated opinion all them? All I have– I guess all most of us have– is our own experiences to project. Pink Floyd invariably reminds me of my Dad. The very first concert I can remember watching (via pay-per-view) was a Pink Floyd concert when I was in third or fourth grade. My Dad had all the windows in the house open and the TV on at some ridiculously loud volume. It made quite the impression on me. I had the vinyl liner for Dark Side of the Moon up on my wall from the age of 11 until I was 17? I can also remember my Mom telling me about the first time she can remember listening to them. JLM loves Pink Floyd as well and freshman year of college, yes, we even did the whole “Wizard of Oz” thing. (Oddly disconcerting.)

All of that being said, I’m not always entirely sure how to feel about them. On the one hand, they sound vastly different from anything else. David Gilmour (and Syd Barrett, too) has such a distinctive voice, but the music is really unique as well. Subject matter varies wildly and leaves a lot of room for your own interpretation. Yet, there is something about them, something I can’t place, that makes you feel such a part of it. It’s like being able to see some glimpse of the big picture, the universe as a whole. That’s how Pink Floyd often sound to me. That’s probably part of the reason why I don’t listen to them very often. It can be overwhelming. Not to mention the mind-trip quality of it all.

So. “Wish You Were Here.” Just the first few bars will bring tears to my eyes. I love that the verses sound so different from the chorus. Almost like two different songs entirely. You have to actually know the song to recognize it when you first hear it. And when the shift into the familiar comes, you aren’t entirely ready for it. I love that this song is so sad. It’s epically sad without being dramatic or contrived- you really believe every word that comes out of Gilmour’s mouth. Which is a bit funny, since Roger Waters is the one that wrote it. It’s aimed towards Syd Barrett (and indeed, it segues into “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” which is the song about him) but, more broadly, it’s about feeling alienated. The guitar doesn’t wail or rage. It’s very simple and it perfectly complements Gilmour’s vocals. He sounds weary and bit despondent. Every syllable sounds forced. Like he’s struggling with himself just to get the words out. The chorus is briefly uplifting and a bit more upbeat until the end, which sounds like a sigh.

Running over the same old ground, what have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

I wasn’t initially fond of the wind effects at the end of the song; I thought they were sort of distracting. They’ve grown on me. The image of swirling sand or dust comes to mind. Which is probably part of the point– ashes to ashes and all that. The greatest thing about this song to me is just that. Its ability to conjure up images so distinctly while saying so little. I don’t think there’s anyone who can’t identify with this feeling, this feeling that the song just hits you right in the gut with. Feeling like you’re the only person that sees things a certain way, or being disappointed in someone else– or their point of view. Missing someone. Feeling like you’re constantly searching for something in vain. Growing older and realizing that you’re not growing any braver.

—–

Visit the official Pink Floyd website at pinkfloyd.com

Seems like I’m always on my own… Back in the frozen District for a week now, following almost two delightful ones in balmy, sunny Florida. Don’t mistake me, D.C. is exciting, engaging and good to me. It’s been an incredible and life changing experience. The sort where you want to soak up every moment– maybe even more so because you know it can’t last. I learned about seasons here… that you have to appreciate each second you get because it could change in the next breath. There are nights like tonight, where I walk around the city in 30 degree weather to meet a friend, feeling completely exhilarated and energized by Chinatown, and the lights, and the company… and I know I will remember this for the rest of my life and feel grateful for it whatever I do, wherever I go.

All that being said, it’s not home. And no matter where I roam– and I’m sure I couldn’t tell you all the places I will or want to– Florida always will be. I hate to start off on such a melancholy note, but this is the first thing I’ve heard in a week that made me really want to sit down and write. I listened to this album a lot about this time two years ago. It came out in September 2005 but took a full year and a half for me to take notice. Late nights won’t do me justice. Augustana. All the Stars and Boulevards. Song of the same name. Interestingly enough, this was the first song off the album that I really connected with. The album, overall, is really well produced. Mixed well, the energy flows nicely from one song to another. It would be easy with so many sad or similar sounding songs to lose focus halfway through, but the music is captivating. It stays with you. This is one of those rare albums that I can listen to from start to finish without getting bored, sleepy, or fidgety. That’s really saying something since my music ADD is well-known and I am guilty of spending entire car rides without listening to any single song all the way through.

It’s easy to listen to. I love Dan Layus’ voice. It’s husky, often wounded sounding, and it really propels the music forward. It won’t bring you down if you’re in a good mood. But, if you’re not… it’s a satisfying balm. They’re only gonna tell you all the bad things I’ve done.. I used to drive around in my car (shocking) in the dead of Florida winter (which was frigid to me then) with the windows down, playing this album, alternating between feeling completely numb and incredibly alive. Not sure if I would do that here.

This song in particular, “All the Stars and Boulevards”, was played in copious amounts during the winter of 2006-2007. The first time around, I was in the middle of ending a relationship, possibly starting a new one, and graduating college. I changed a lot of well thought out, agonized over, and yet, mislaid plans in a very short amount of time. I felt confused, jumbled, guilty, damaged and very alone. Like there was no place for me, like I didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone. It’s a feeling that only grew in intensity over the next year. I’m not sure that there are lyrics that could apply to my personal situation at the time any better than these. The music itself, the guitar, sounds resigned. Layus’ voice does, too. Resigned, yet desperate, clinging, but trying not to. I also really like the live version of this song. It’s got a great melody and on the live version, the harmonica, piano, and guitar meld in a way that I think speaks to the soul of the song even more than the original version.

I told you I could give you anything, but anything won’t do. Circumstances in my life currently couldn’t be more different than they were then. So now, even though this song, this album, this music, reminds me of that time… it also resonates in a new way. Isn’t it funny when something like that happens? When you hear the correct lyrics for a song you’ve been singing for years? Or you stop to listen to something that you didn’t hear clearly before and it opens your eyes to this whole new meaning, this whole new world? Now, I have direction, healthy relationships, life experiences. I know more about myself, what’s good for me, and what I want than maybe I ever have before. I love D.C. but I belong elsewhere. It’s simply that home is where your heart is and both home and my heart are 800 miles away. I miss things that I can’t have here right now. Four months is such a short amount of time, but it can seem like forever when you have as little patience as I do. It’s both too much time and too little.

Seems like I’m never comin’ home.

—–

For more information on Augustana, visit their official website.

I don’t remember the first time I heard “Pushit.” I don’t remember the first time I heard Tool, for that matter. I know that when it came out I hated hearing “Lateralus” on the radio and it took a supreme effort on JLM’s part to get me to actually listen to it. I know I was in love with A Perfect Circle long before I connected the dots that would lead me to Tool. I know that it has taken an overexposure to their music for me to love them, that even now I am discovering and rediscovering. I don’t know if I will ever stop hearing something different, some nuance I never noticed before. I haven’t even scratched the surface with this band and honestly, I doubt I ever will. I doubt I can. The talent, the complexity of the music, the references in the lyrics… It’s like the fucking T.S. Eliot of modern rock. See you down in Arizona Bay.

I know also that this sound will never occupy my soul the way Mer de Noms does, but as I move and change, it moves and changes with me. It doesn’t make me nostalgic the way a lot of other music does. I don’t have many memories associated with Tool and it’s not for a lack of listening. It vaguely reminds me of MIA, but only because I’m always trying to remember something I’ve noticed in a song that I want to discuss with him. By the time “Prison Sex” has turned into “Sober,” I have forgotten what it was. Tool is mine in a way that few bands are and yet I resist embracing them, being lulled into complacency by the sound. This isn’t music that will tuck you in at night. It doesn’t leave you feeling whole and well and it certainly won’t fill that empty place in you. Pushing and shoving me.

When I saw Tool in May of 2007, they played this. I did not notice, I only know that they did because I distinctly remember M pointing it out to me. I was hoping they would play “Opiate” but no such luck. I have heard people say that seeing Tool is like a religious experience. For me, it was like being put into a trance. I never knew that something so loud could be that soothing. At the end of it, I only knew that I had been crying because my face was wet. Perhaps thats part of my resistance to embracing them wholeheartedly. Tool isn’t just moving. It crawls underneath my skin, settling itself as it pleases and leaving me with no control. It disturbs and stirs and lingers. Days away I still feel you.

Tool takes everything you have ever feared, ever been paranoid about, anything that has ever lurked in the shadows in the back of your mind and will pull it right to the surface. It makes the hole wider. It digs in and won’t let go until has thoroughly shaken you. But. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger right? That’s the thing, really. Much like having a good cry, once you come up for oxygen, you feel better. More in control, level headed, collected. Because the songs aren’t about whining, they aren’t about breaking down, and they sure as hell aren’t about losing. There is no choice but to confront you. It will make you face your fears, face yourself, stop running. If Tool breaks you down, it is only to make you stronger. I know I am better for hearing it. Often angrier. But anger is a catalyst for change. Its constructive. Don’t mistake me, it’s not like listening to Tool isn’t enjoyable, its just not easy listening by any stretch of the imagination. Choosing to be here, right now, hold on, stay inside, this holy reality, this holy experience. Choosing to be here in… this body. This body holding me. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in- this body, this body holding me, feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion. Alive.

Listening to Tool can be liking falling into a hole. I rarely put them on mixes because its so hard to find an equal, something that matches. They usually get sandwiched between Deftones and Nine Inch Nails. And once I start listening, it’ll often be hours, even days before I can break myself away. Undertow bleeds into Aenima into Lateralus and finally resting on Opiate. Whatever I was doing falls to the wayside, and if I’m driving, it’s not unusual for me to get lost. Frankly, it’s dangerous and breeds dissatisfaction. And yet… I don’t want it, I just need it. To breathe, to feel, to know I’m alive.

I have had a pain in my chest for days that is only caused by stresses I cannot express. It sounds like this song. I wrote some of the lyrics down on a to do list weeks ago and they have been haunting me, taunting me ever since. Daring me to write about it. I will choke until I swallow. And I don’t know what to say really. Except that there are still days where I feel like everything, every single little thing that makes up life itself is an uphill battle that I am constantly fighting and clawing at and that I am bleeding myself dry just to stay in place and not slide back down to the bottom of this mountain that I am forever climbing in my journey to God only knows where. I know the pieces fit. And I knew that I would feel better if I just gave in to Maynard’s voice for a few hours.

—–

For more information on Tool, visit toolband.com.

I have been waiting for the right moment to talk about this song. I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one. Stone Temple Pilots- “Big Empty”. It has been my favorite song since the moment I heard it- when I was nine. It happens to be on the soundtrack for the movie, The Crow (one of my favorite movies ever) and the soundtrack is amazing- Nine Inch Nails’ cover of “Lost Souls”… but I digress. It’s also found on the album, Purple, widely accepted as the best offering STP has ever come out with.

This song means things to me that words simply don’t describe. Not only has it remained my favorite song for, oh, going on 16 years now… but it also seems to pop up at the most opportune times. Days when I especially need to hear it, need to be reminded of who I am, moments when it seems like I am just utterly down and out- it seems to just come on the radio or on my iPod or somehow wind its way back into the fabric of my life. Sustaining me, filling up my soul with sheer joy. I’m not even exaggerating. This song is pure magic for me, from the first opening bars until the last strains of it are silenced.

How do you describe your favorite song? The lyrics are just enough. Uncomplicated, unable to stand on their own, but fitting into the music perfectly. It’s some combination of Dean DeLeo’s slide guitar and Scott Weiland’s voice that really does it to me. All the building and falling, the palpable tension, and the sheer sexiness of it all. I cried, literally cried, when they played this when I saw them live (Hard Rock Live- Orlando- Fall 2002). I hear it and I just stand still and stop breathing for a second or two, taking it all in. I’m sure it’s amusing for other people to watch. (It came on when I was playing pool one night and I stopped mid-conversation with my date, utterly fixated.)

It’s a feeling that can’t be transferred, apparently. I’ve made countless people listen to it, in the hopes that they would not only understand me better, or feel the things I do when I hear it- but that they would be able to have that feeling too. Pure adrenaline wrapped up in a valium. The experience from this song is unique only to me it seems. Unfortunately or not- it isn’t something that I have been able to share- mostly due to my own inadequacies in expressing it. And possibly because it’s too much pressure. You tell someone how this song is your touchstone and your soul and they listen to it and don’t hear it all? Utter disappointment. Thus, I’ve stopped sharing.

And, at the end of the day, I don’t want to. I mean, I’d love to share it, but I don’t want to try to express it. I think finding an adequate way to put it into words, encompassing the sheer intensity of this song for me, would take a bit of the shine off. Though, if you’ve ever seen a shirtless, boa-clad, Scott Weiland singing this in between drags of a cigarette from six feet away you might get a small glimpse of what I’m talking about.

Too much trippin’ and my soul’s worn thin.