Ryan works as a security guard in the Oroville Hospital. He plays guitar. Soccer, too. He got pulled over in Texas and shot at in Afghanistan. Since he couldn't come to last Sunday's concert, Yuri and I played some songs for him in the other Ryan's bedroom. The indie cowboy Ryan. I mean, things didn't start out so well. When we got to indie cowboy Ryan's house, Rochelle was filling out a police report and comparing bruises with blonde ironyard-worker Ryan.
Anyway, good music will find you. I don't care how shifty or stoic your look. Here is some good music pining after you right now:
Green tomatoes. You can fry them: they're delicious but not ripe. Frontier Ruckus maybe isn't quite ripe, but neither is your heart. They sound like the Appalachian Neutral Milk Hotel. If you're anything like me, that band description has been on your Christmas list for a good several years. And you are like me. Here, look at my hands. We both have hands. Yours are a little bigger.
Let's say you stained the knees on your jeans. No, wait, slacks. Gray slacks. Let's say when you picked off one of the grass blades it turned into a key. Since you're a cool bitch, you knew this key would open that old brick shack down the street from the Antique Tool Museum. Inside the brick shack, you found singing saw, banjo, gas station light, moss on a well pump, snare brush, and some brown-eyed antelope singing "Anna let's die in some dim town." Pretty soon--one or three seconds later--you wouldn't want to sleep anywhere else.
Okay, so you want the antelope to scream a little. Maybe he will. You'll just have to wait and wait for the rest of your life, your sweet and thorn-pricked life.
Listen to the EP (and best) versions of songs on their MySpace -- also with a link to buy their EP
Dustin and the Furniture
Hmm, what do you think: once you become aware of your own youth, hasn't it slipped off? Ah, but you still have your relation to others, and everyone else is still moving their heads in that off way, saying odd things you once understood or will understand in the future, and all those little brothers and mothers let you know where you stand, even if you're blindfolded and stepping a little unsure.
A Drum and an Open Window are Yuri and Whisper from Boston, MA, and they play that xylophone/melodica/banjo antifolk or twee folk that lives in your attic. Really. The twee folk run away when you peek, but still live there, stealing your cell phone charger and eating your berries. I played some songs with these guys in Oroville last Sunday. Before the show, we visited the Chinese Temple, ate all the blackberries of Oroville (see? I told you), talked a lot about classic Coca-Cola and less about armed robbery. Listen to "The Mom Song."
Dustin was there too, and he managed to identify a random group of rowdy Hawaiian boys as a band. How did he know? Dustin just knows. Don't play poker against him. Seriously. His music is like that too. I mean, don't play poker against his music. Don't play poker against his beard. Just refrain, kid. Listen to "Rap Song" instead.
Listen on yonder MySpace: A Drum and An Open Window and Dustin and the Furniture
In fact, listen to these songs too:
"Hannah We Know" -- Tiny Dancers (video link)
Speaking of attics, Britain has again produced one of the world's best pop band. What, you think they stop? They don't fucking stop.
Where the Ocean Meets My Hand -- Billie the Vision and the Dancers (free album)
Speaking of the World's Best Pop Band Belt (coming soon to your local wrestling federation), Sweden's Billie the Vision and the Dancers have given away another free album. All of the songs are good. Even the ones that read like tour diaries. Golly shit! My favs: "09. I Saw You On TV" and "10. I've Been Having Some Strange Dreams" plus Hello Saferide duet "07. Overdosing With You."
"Matagorda" -- Black Before Red (song)
If Paulie Mac accompanied your summer drive past old high schools and thrift stores and that one gully park shaded, hidden, and filled with pianos.
"Bad Times Are On Their Way -- My Darling YOU! (song)
A major FU to the last song. A little punk maybe, sneer too big for their cheeks, but who wants to grow into their sneer? We just want to make some noise.
"Dixie" -- Gill Landry (song)
When this song comes on: "Everybody please shut the fuck up and stop dancing and fake your southern accents and give somebody some fucking handshake drugs and a hug. Ahmen."
Dear Andrea -- Eileen Myles (live poetry)
"Spare me the postmodern experimental poet bullshit. Honey, think hard." I don't know the linebreaks, but the love is still there no matter what I don't understand.
I Haven't Got a MySpace Because MySpace Fucking Sucks -- Pete Green (song)
Well, um, I mean, I got one. You might. But this guy doesn't. What he does do is springy-dingy British wit, rhyme chops to boot. Megan's new favorite song.