The Mariner’s Revenge Song – The Decemberists

December 11, 2005 at 1:36 am | In regular people | 1 Comment

At 313 plays recorded on last.fm, not including the countless plays on my iriver or the times i paused or skipped the songs on my itunes to deliberately keep the numbers down a bit, the Decemberists are obviously my favorite band. I could listen to every song by them repeatedly without fatigue, as evidenced by the 15 Decemberists’ songs in my top 50 on last.fm.

I like to spread my obsession to others; I claim primary responsibility for Mimi, and share the responsibility with Madman for Mara Pea listening to them, although I think Madman took a nudge from me as well. Each of them, though, has expressed such admiration for “The Mariner’s Revenge Song”, that I felt I should examine its popular appeal as my next “Music for Regular People” post.

I introduced Mimi to the band at the same time as I coerced her to go to the Decemberists’ concert at the 9:30 Club in October. They toured in the spring, and there was no way I could let myself miss my second chance. Although I prefer to attend concerts with fans as rabid as I am, I must often bring a less enthusiastic escort in order to have any escort at all. Mimi has a natural zest for life anyway, so it wasn’t hard to convert her to a fair level of enthusiasm. As we waited for the concert to begin, Mimi told me that she was looking forward to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” the most. I imagine I squinted at her a little, because this was my first inkling that this song was a major factor in the band’s appeal. I enjoyed it, of course, but I regarded it as an exaggerated masterpiece, a particularly showy use of the accordion, and a less appealing showcase of Colin’s vocals.

As each song began, I looked over at Mimi to express my own excitement by grinning uncontrollably, not always meeting the same level of excitement in her face. Being a compassionate concert companion, I made sure to look over at the beginning of Mariner’s to register her excitement. Her eyes were shining and her grin was wide. Mimi’s joy swelled with the crowd’s as the Decemberists asked for audience assistance during the wailing and groaning bits.

I reached Step 1 in the 3 Step program: “Learn why Mariner’s really is a Decemberists song!” — Decemberists = theatrical, Mariner’s = theatrical, therefore Decemberists = Mariner’s (I know the logic isn’t quite right if you think about it, but I’m neither a philosopher nor a mathematician, work with me here!)

Step 2 came courtesy of Madman (aside – if I spelled his real name correctly in that nickname, there’d be a curse word included as well!). While being abused, oh wait, amused, by Madman on AIM, he asked me about the beginning of the plot. He had listened to Mariner’s while driving but hadn’t paid complete attention to the initial lyrics. Specifically, he wanted to know what was done to the mother of the narrator (Madman – don’t go check our conversation to see if I’m right, because I still find that creepy). I did have to think through the lyrics a bit, but I answered him in due time. (young bum loved her and left her)

Step 2 in my program: Colin Meloy started playing and performing to take time off before going to grad school for writing, and so combines his love of stories with his love of songs. Decemberists’ songs tell great stories, and Mariner’s is certainly a great story.

Step 3, Mara Pea! Mara was my most difficult conversion. Although usually willing to benefit from prior discovery of good music by Madman or me, Mara was busy being a 4th grade (student) teacher this semester. My pleas for the English major goodness of Decemberists’ fell on busy ears. She did use the getfile tool in AIM to retrieve their music from me at some point, but since then has lost the files. Although she has not listened to all of their music (and I’m not going to even consider the possibility that she hasn’t heard “Here I Dreamt I was an Architect,” “Of Angels and Angles,” or “Everything I Try to Do, Nothing Seems to Turn out Right”), my offer to send her Mariner’s again was met with EXTREME excitement.
Since I know nothing of her love for the song beyond that, I decided that my program had come to and end with a simple step I should have acknowledged from the beginning.

Step 3 in my program: Mariner’s is just a lovable song. The Decemberists are a lovable band. The Decemberists and Mariner’s should not be parted as long as they both shall live.

THE END (if this were in proper Mariner’s spirit, I would have written or you would have read the end of this post fasterandfasteruntilyouranoutofbreath).

Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games – Of Montreal

December 7, 2005 at 10:15 pm | In music video, regular people | Leave a Comment

I feel that I should post about songs with the potential to woo people out of their musical sleep (and so I shall!). By that I mean, those who look at me in skepticism when I get all a flutter about upcoming concerts at the 9:30 Club that I will end up not attending for lack of companionship. Summary: music for regular people!
This song speaks to me in many ways. First off, the driving bass at the beginning of the song seems to actually be saying something. I don’t speak guitar, but whatever it says seems friendly. Maybe it’s the grown up version of the bass from “Rapture Rapes the Muses” ? I also like to sing along with the instruments in my merrily off-key way.
Anyway, me being me, I ignore this line: I’ll play the Satyr in Cypris you the bride being stripped bare, and its implications for the rest of the song. Oh, but I do love the rest of the lyrics. I love that Kevin Barnes mentions Tristan and Isolde (which by the way, Colin Meloy does in a Tarkio song), I love that he wants to pretend to be in Antarctica. Love, love, love this song.

Ok, enough about me, why would a regular person like this song? Repetitive lyrics that are mostly easy to sing along to, instruments most people have heard in some song somewhere, and hooks beats hooks for dancers and lovers of pop. It also seems to be romantic enough for popular taste, and along with the rest of The Sunlandic Twins album, not alienating in the way of previous Of Montreal albums.

I just found the Flash music video for this song today. Although it has awesome polka-dots, overall I am not as interested in watching this as I thought I would be. The animated animals are cute for a bit, but I’d rather see REALLY bizarre (in a non-pornographic sense) celebrations. Here’s a link so you can see and hear Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games Video

To accompany this post, I was going to give a brief (meaning long) history of my Of Montreal listening habits, but doing so would involve too many other parts of my music listening history that I will probably write about elsewhere. So, here is an actually brief history of my Of Montreal listening habits.late high school – downloaded Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies, thought it was weird, listened to it anyway

most of college – listened to Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies when it came up in playlist, otherwise mostly ignored band

senior year – saw poster for Of Montreal concert at school, was again sad that no friends would go, looked up band again and began listening to more albums

summer 2005 – found and began listening to Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games, fell in love with song, never looked back

autistic cat

December 1, 2005 at 11:53 pm | In cat, colonial williamsburg | Leave a Comment

Amanda and Katie walked briskly over the bumpy brick sidewalks late Wednesday night. A movement began in the field beside them.  Their heads turned to see a jingling blur which materialized into a calico cat rushing at them. Katie burst into incoherent jibbering; Amanda recoiled, her first instinct believing the animal to be a skunk. Slowing as it reached their side, the now civilized looking cat walked gingerly forward as they did. Gently, Katie offered her hand to the cat to test its friendliness, sensing that it was safe to pet it briefly. The cat sprung forward a step to avoid more contact, but kept pace with the girls, its collar bell ringing softly.

They continued this way for 5 minutes, as the girls grew increasingly confused about the cat’s behavior. It did not show much interest in affection, yet it did not want to leave their side. Katie initiated a quick turn into the street, and though the cat made a concerted effort to follow, it gave up and continued to jingle on in its own direction.

Pink Bullets – The Shins

November 29, 2005 at 12:42 am | In driving, quiet | Leave a Comment

This song has the honor of appearing on two of my car mixtapes. The first appearance was on a mix I made right after I’d discovered the Shins (before the Garden State soundtrack appeared!!), the second on my most recent tape. This truly is an honor, because:

  • before this summer, i could only access the stereo i use to record tapes at home on breaks . hence, mixtapes had to last quite a while
  • blank tapes are at a premium in my estimation . i don’t like to spend money on them
  • music in the car must either (a) keep me singing or (b) keep my ears surprised on highway trips where i am prone to sleepiness
  • i like to blast my music as loud as possible out the window on campus, just in case there’s anyone to impress ~.~

The beginning of the song always makes me smile. It’s just the right combination of mellowness and strangeness to keep me interested over repeated listenings.

The rest of the song is pretty singable, although I have to change keys a lot because I am a terrible singer. Another good combination in the song is the melancholic timbres of James Mercer’s voice and the attention grabbing stops in the song that draw attention to the last lines of each stanza. The lyrics are worthy of attention; they’re of the kind that can be quoted endlessly. My favorite bit, just because it is applicable to my entire college experience:
the years have been short but the days go slowly by.

This is not the best example of the uncoventional imagery and wording the Shins are so good at dreaming up, but these lines just drip with poignancy. I could not resist.
I was somewhat disappointed with The Shins concert I went to at the Norva. I expected all the restrained emotion I heard quavering in the music to come out full force in the live performance. James Mercer, however, kept his emotion restrained, tucked deep beneath his eyes and placid expression. I positioned myself directly in front of him (2nd or 3rd row), yet I kept craning my neck to see the keyboard player, whose crazy energy was the most memorable part of the show.

Back to the song, it’s one of those quiet songs that is best played loud to let listeners immerse themselves in the subtle variations that lay behind the deceptively simple veneer.

Wow, I know I sound pretentious … but seriously… I don’t know much about the mechanics behind the music, so I must cover up my ignorance with fancy verbiage. Also, if you asked me in person for my opinion of this song, I’d probably just say: “Oh, it’s so pretty. I like to sing along.”

All is Vanity

November 23, 2005 at 12:10 pm | In hair, high school, mom | Leave a Comment

Katie entered the living room very rarely. Because the oriental rug covered most of the hardwood floor, she could never remember exactly where the hole was located on that left side of the room. She never remembered what incident had caused the hole to appear, but every trip to the living room was haunted by the awareness of the hole’s presence. The house was a collection of 22 years of flaws such as this; the Changs had usually had enough money to get by, but house repairs were a frivolous expenditure as long as the house still stood.

Today, Katie ventured in to the hole’s territory, scurrying along the right perimeter where she knew she was safe. She had risked the trip in order to look carefully at her senior year portrait. As she admired her unsmiling profile, she wondered if any of her former classmates actually looked at her senior picture. After the fiasco freshman year, where the yearbook did not print her picture even though she’d sat for it just like everyone else, Katie had refused to be in the yearbook until senior year. Although she did not consider herself ugly, she could never keep her eyes open for photographers other than herself. Most pictures of her from high school made her look like an adolescent junkie. The photograph she looked at now was the only one she found acceptable from the batch of proofs they had sent her. After a ridiculous and maddening struggle with her mother over which picture to use for the yearbook, her mother promised to send in Katie’s favorite. Her mother’s preference was one that made Katie suspect her mother had a lazy eye. Covering up the left side, the picture had potential. The hair was pushed behind the ear, and the eye had a hint of a smile. Covering up the right side, Katie again looked like a surly junkie. Looking at both sides together gave Katie a sense of what she’d look like after a stroke. Months later, when the class of 2001 received their $50 yearbook, every copy contained the stroke picture, and Katie regretted her decision to be in any of the yearbooks. Better that people not remember her face and think she might have been pretty than to have such firm proof of the opposite on the basis of one picture. She still harbored resentment against her mother for going against her word with such last effects.

She came to the mirror for the thousandth time since she’d had her haircut the week before. It was so short! Reaching back to find such little hair was still a shock; for eight years she’d cherished her long hair, fighting tangles several times a day to keep it from becoming dreadlocked. Now, she barely had to brush it even once during the day. In that way it was less work, but the need to blow dry it every day was becoming a nuisance. This morning she had fun with it though. First, she pretended she was her dog Peter in the car. He took every opportunity to let his long wheat-colored hair stream in the wind while he panted out the window. Then she pursed her lips and jutted out her hips. The Letters to Cleo song started playing in her mind, I’m going to be a supermodel.

Now, looking in the mirror, she drew her eyes from her hair to the rest of her body. She didn’t really look like a supermodel, nor did she want to. She was especially proud of her outfit today because it was so eclectic. She was three inches taller from wearing the black leather boots she bought for a mere $25. Her pants were some kind of fuzzy black material and hung very loosely. Always self-conscious about her weight, Katie preferred big loose clothes that made her feel smaller even if she didn’t look it. Her sweater was a bright, deep aqua. She liked plain, brightly colored shirts for teaching, and this was one of the tops she’d hastily stuffed into her luggage as she’d packed for home the morning before. The piece de resistance, however, was a long vaguely dress shaped coat her mom had bought for her years before. Purple, blue, and aqua threads ran through a black background, and blue buttons with wrinkles like those in pictures of the human brain served to close the coat. From a trip into her mother’s vast jewelry stand (it was not just a chest, it was a 4 foot tall treasury of all types of jewelry collected over a lifetime), she had extracted a set of deep purple beads to drape around her neck.. They were not uniformly shaped, they looked like shiny purple Nerds to Katie, but they worked so well with the outfit that she knotted the long strand to make sure it would show from under the wide collar of the coat. Her brown thick rimmed glasses completed the “I look strange, but good” look she put together today. Tomorrow she’d likely be wearing a sloppy sweatshirt and old yoga pants, but dressing in radically different styles from day to day was part of the way she kept herself entertained during the many hours she spent in her own consciousness.

literary and odorific insomnia

November 21, 2005 at 8:56 pm | In reading, sleep | 1 Comment

As she burrowed into her white jersey sheets, Katie cursed her own foolishness. No…it was the book’s foolishness. She had just spent 2 precious hours of sleep plowing through The Corrections after returning home after 3am. Why couldn’t all novels be like those she read as a child, with chapters that could be finished within 5 minutes and that ended with a temporarily satisfying resolution. She had a brief wish that she could control literature. First, she would take out all the references to pot (even the far-removed act of reading about drugs of any kind made her queasy). Second, she would parcel out each book into neat little chapters more conducive to her weakness for following suspense. She knew she didn’t really want to water down books in this way, but it would definitely help her get more sleep.

As it was now, books bullied her to read them into the long hours of the night. The intensity, the suspense, but even above all the possibility of seeing her own thought in the words of another, these things all drove her into zombie-like fits of reading. Lying on her back, her eyes unblinking and her arms tensed, she gripped the book above her. Finally, hours after her intended bedtime, Katie would abruptly shut the book. There was no logic to the point where she left off in the text, but her body acted more quickly than her brain. She would switch off the bedlight and snuggle furiously into her pillow. Her last thought was always a dare to fall asleep as fast as possible to catch the final precious hours of darkness.

Always losing bookmarks and with no head for page numbers, the next reading session always involved a few minutes of scrambling through a chunk of pages that appeared to be likely candidates for her stopping place. Tomorrow would be no exception, but the important thing tonight was to live up to her dare. It was 5:30 am for goodness sake!

…

She’d finally finished The Corrections, more than 3 hours after she’d gotten into bed. The strenuous pace she’d built up to by the last 30 pages began deccelerating to the few random thoughts she allowed herself before pushing herself into unconsciousness. With the light off and the book off to the side of the expanse of the queen bed, Katie’s brain shut down but her nostrils were forced awake. The smell of cigarettes from the Banque (a line dancing club she’d been to the night before) reintroduced itself to her awareness. Here was further evidence of the insidious nature of tobacco, the smell clung and lingered so stubbornly! Beginning in 4 inches of paper and carcinogens hanging between the lips of old cowboys at the Banque, the odor had congealed and imbedded itself into every inch of Katie’s clothing and hair. She’d shampooed twice the morning after, and escaped her room early this morning, but her pillow case and the discarded clothes were still host to the parasitic smell. Right before she’d turned out the light, Katie viewed her fingernails with dismay. They looked yellower than she remembered. Was it possible that one night of soaking in tobacco fumes could discolor them so quickly? She had never even held a cigarette in her hand.

The smell was sickening, the only way she could escape it was to smother her face in her own hair and breathe in the lingering aroma of shampoo. Katie considered getting out of bed to spray her “Jasmine Body Splash” over the bed. But no, she was a smart consumer. She paid attention to the scientific diagrams in advertisements; covering up odor doesn’t work, the only solution is neutralization. If only the commercials had actually convinced her to buy an odor neutralizer, those white globules would be dancing over to replace the yellow and brown globules and her nose could sleep in peace. With another deep inhalation of hair, Katie buried herself in the covers and willed sleep.

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