Family Music. Sufjan Stevens. All Popular.
Before you had your own, what was your family music?
The soundtrack to the Band's "The Last Waltz" has been cued in my sister's station wagon for months. Funny to think that her two kids, born 1991 and 1994, now know all the songs by a band that made musical history forty years ago. The kids have their favorites. They sing along. This is the music that will be ground deep into their emotional DNA: the sound of family, claustrophobia, love, history.
My family music nobody's heard of anymore. Did anybody else out there listen to Jesse Colin Young and the Youngbloods? Loose-limbed, hippie-lyrical improvisations on guitar, keyboard, and drums. Or Judy Collins? Nothing like Judy Collins to place you as the child of liberal urban academics. Brecht's wrathful "Kill them now . . . or later?" is a great line for any little girl to spout at the dinner table.
SUFJAN
Last night I saw Sufjan Stevens, who sings a lot about childhood, family car trips, and memory. Like the Beatles or Glenn Miller, he has a genius for harnessing orchestral power in service of a pop sensibility. The band last night included a French horn, bassoon, string quartet, fifth violin, electric guitar, piano, keyboard, pump organ, and female backing vocalist. Sans bass and drums, Sufjan relies on equal parts rigor and invention to supply that visceral rock rush. His methods include dramatic surges in volume and tempo, percussive passages played by the band en masse, and crackerjack timing by all parties. It sounds fucking great.
I confess, I'm not crazy about Sufjan's hushed, deadly earnest acoustic numbers. Did I mention I despise Bright Eyes? Also, some of his childhood reminiscences come off as a little fey or twee or something. Singing exclusively about childhood marks you as an artist not yet out of your adolescence. At the same time Stevens's idiosyncratic lyrics are a refreshing alternative to the usual pop fare, so I won't complain.
POPULAR ALL OF A SUDDEN
Ever since I "chose" to switch to Blogger Google Beta, or whatever the fuck they call it, my hitcount has ballooned obscenely. Like from thirteen to 168 visitors to Wanda Ball a day. All Google Image hits. Sweaty fourteen-year-olds furtively seeking out pictures of tanning bed himbos, Zach Hanson, Johnny Knoxville. This is not my audience, people. Should I limit the site feed? I don't want to cut off folks searching for stuff about AWP, New Stories from the South, or writing residencies. At the same time, I can't start soliciting ads and make money off the increased traffic, because these images, are, ahem, borrowed from other sources. What should I do, people? Vise me.
EDITED TO ADD
Check out Chickywang's Sufjan report. Dang she funny.
The soundtrack to the Band's "The Last Waltz" has been cued in my sister's station wagon for months. Funny to think that her two kids, born 1991 and 1994, now know all the songs by a band that made musical history forty years ago. The kids have their favorites. They sing along. This is the music that will be ground deep into their emotional DNA: the sound of family, claustrophobia, love, history.
My family music nobody's heard of anymore. Did anybody else out there listen to Jesse Colin Young and the Youngbloods? Loose-limbed, hippie-lyrical improvisations on guitar, keyboard, and drums. Or Judy Collins? Nothing like Judy Collins to place you as the child of liberal urban academics. Brecht's wrathful "Kill them now . . . or later?" is a great line for any little girl to spout at the dinner table.
SUFJAN
Last night I saw Sufjan Stevens, who sings a lot about childhood, family car trips, and memory. Like the Beatles or Glenn Miller, he has a genius for harnessing orchestral power in service of a pop sensibility. The band last night included a French horn, bassoon, string quartet, fifth violin, electric guitar, piano, keyboard, pump organ, and female backing vocalist. Sans bass and drums, Sufjan relies on equal parts rigor and invention to supply that visceral rock rush. His methods include dramatic surges in volume and tempo, percussive passages played by the band en masse, and crackerjack timing by all parties. It sounds fucking great.
I confess, I'm not crazy about Sufjan's hushed, deadly earnest acoustic numbers. Did I mention I despise Bright Eyes? Also, some of his childhood reminiscences come off as a little fey or twee or something. Singing exclusively about childhood marks you as an artist not yet out of your adolescence. At the same time Stevens's idiosyncratic lyrics are a refreshing alternative to the usual pop fare, so I won't complain.
POPULAR ALL OF A SUDDEN
Ever since I "chose" to switch to Blogger Google Beta, or whatever the fuck they call it, my hitcount has ballooned obscenely. Like from thirteen to 168 visitors to Wanda Ball a day. All Google Image hits. Sweaty fourteen-year-olds furtively seeking out pictures of tanning bed himbos, Zach Hanson, Johnny Knoxville. This is not my audience, people. Should I limit the site feed? I don't want to cut off folks searching for stuff about AWP, New Stories from the South, or writing residencies. At the same time, I can't start soliciting ads and make money off the increased traffic, because these images, are, ahem, borrowed from other sources. What should I do, people? Vise me.
EDITED TO ADD
Check out Chickywang's Sufjan report. Dang she funny.
Labels: family, music, Sufjan Stevens
posted by Wanda Ball at 10:50 AM
7 Comments:
Don't do anything. Increased traffic is increased traffic. I'm getting tons of hits each day just because I once linked to a Caravaggio painting. Unless you want to run ads. But why would you want to run ads?
Because I want to quit school and buy a yacht?
Duh, Crazy.
Dude, just steal a yacht. You ever try to pay taxes on one of them? You'll have to start a whole new blog and run even more ads.
Omigod, you are so right. Plus there are a MILLION PLACES TO HIDE MY NEW STOLEN YACHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING MIDWEST.
You can always hide it in my bathroom.
Cool. Remind me to leave it when I come over Tuesday.
Post a Comment
<< Home