The Sour Session
The sour beer never made sense to me. I understood sweet. Bitter came later, but I got it, that and everything in between. However, the idea of a sour beer seemed wrong.
I started running with a beer-centric crowd just as sours were beginning to take off. I tried this and that, but none of it made sense to me. What was the big deal? The beers were either not that sour (Ommegang Bière de Mars[1]) or were frankly too sophisticated for my naive palate (anything from Russian River[2]). In a world of bitter hop bombs and syrupy imperial stouts, the sour was at least a respite from such abrasive flavors, not their equal.
As time went by, I began to appreciate sour beers, though. Of course, “sour” as a style barely began to describe these beers. Some were tart from processes in the mash. Others were soured with the addition of fruits or unique yeast strains. Still, others were soured in the barrels of beer’s sworn enemy: wine. The variations and multitude of supplemental flavors opened up my senses to a whole other world of craft beer enthusiasm.
However, something was missing. There wasn’t the equivalent of a Mikkeller 1000 IBU, Southern Tier Crème Brûlée, or Dogfish Head 120 Minute. Somehow, the imperial and extreme approach passed over sour beers. Sours are known for their subtlety. The goal with sour beer is not to make you pucker until your lips fall off. Instead, a sour is meant to tease the senses with a complex variety of flavors that recall tart berries, oak barrels, and ye olde farm house[3]. Although I really enjoy the ethereal qualities of a sour beer, sometimes I want the extreme to contrast the typical.
For me, the sour beer that best fills this want is New Belgium’s La Folie.
La Folie is a controversial beer. People either love it or they hate it. It’s straight sour. You can pretend to sense other flavors with your nuanced taster, all you really get is Sour Patch x 100 without the sugar.
The beer is flat, nearly dead with it’s thin ring of foam that circles the brown pucker juice within your glass. Maybe New Belgium couldn’t figure out how to carbonate this beast or maybe they didn’t want to. One can only imagine the fury this truly arrogant bastard[4]. would unleash on your tongue if there was even a few more bubbles to carry the sour further.
And if this truly is the extreme sour beer I crave, it’s remarkable that alcohol only accounts for 6% of its volume. Typically, beers with extreme flavors come correct with an extreme ABV. New Belgium knew what they had when they first poured La Folie down their gullets. Booze would only taint the sour with sweetness, a la those aforementioned Sour Patch Kids.
Of course, aside from supplementing flavors with some wooziness, alcohol is mainly there to slow your roll. It makes you sip a beer that’s meant for sipping, not chugging. Let the flavors linger. La Folie doesn’t need ABV. The sour slows you down on it’s own.
For this little sour session[5], I pulled out a La Folie on which I’ve been sitting. I really wasn’t aging it. It’s just that no one really wants to take that beer on and suffer the consequences.
It’s an intimidating beer. I’d be lying if I pretended that I wasn’t…I’m not still intimidated. The current packaging is way less ominous with its annual redesign[6]. When I first tried this beer a couple years ago, it came in the big 750 mL bottles, corked and baring only a tag and a little red stamp of the New Belgium bicycle logo. It took me two days sharing it with another dude to swallow it down.
This recent La Folie was less daunting. Maybe it was the smaller, cuter packaging. Maybe it was the last two or so years exploring Jolly Pumpkin, Boulevard, Captain Lawrence, Russian River, Stillwater, Odell’s, and more New Belgium[7]. Whatever it was, I enjoyed sipping that La Folie over pizza and while I brewed an imperial stout of my own design.
Love it. Hate it. Fuck it. It may or may not be a sour to you. It may or may not be drinkable. Whatever. La Folie is a benchmark for me when it comes to sour beer. Maybe it’s extreme, maybe it isn’t. All I know is that it’s more interesting, more controversial, more sour than whatever’s in your glass right now[8].
Notes:
1Is this even considered sour? That may be my first problem.
2Well, anything not named Pliny.
3Or a wet horse blanket, maybe even vagina.
4Yes, that is a tiny jab at friend of the blog Greg Koch whose Stone Brewery hosts an infamous sour beer event despite no sour beers of their own. It’s time Stone got on this, Greg.
5Or is it session of sours?
6my bottle looked like a wood barrel. Anyone know when those were bottled?
7Lips of Faith indeed. I could mention a long list of old Begians, but I never commit those beers to memory…aside from the Duchess. Sweet and sour, succulent Duchesse.
8This footnote is here just to let you know that I composed most of this post – footnotes and all – on my iPhone in a bar without a beer in hand and while local punk bands played on stage.
No Time to Dabble
Since proclaiming myself a gentleman dabbler, time for such pursuits has been scarce. Or at least the time for blogging about my hobbies has. Work has been killing me. The heat has been debilitating. And my current obsession just proves once again that we should all kill our televisions.
Finding time for extracurricular pursuits as well as telling your about them has been a chore. Between traveling for work and family as well as it being the busiest time of year for my job, there just isn’t time for beer, Pavement, or coalition building. I recognize these are secondary or even tertiary in the grand scheme of things. Still, my hobbies and dabbles are a respite from the real world. No economic crisis or partisan blowhards here. Nope. I need my craft beer, indie rock, and this blog to keep me sane.
This post will get a huge monkey off my back. Over a week ago, I had a long list of things about which I wanted to blog. Most of those ideas have escaped me, but this feels like a comeback. There is another post coming on a Thursday[1]. Beyond that, I have at least one idea for another post. So, we should be good over here.
My other duties blogging have not come easy either. The work blog is barely keeping up and The CoMo Collective is sputtering a bit. Hell, the Twitter feed is even slowing to a halt. So, it’s not just here. I just don’t seem to have the time at the moment for any of these pastimes.
That said, I feel this post (and Thursday’s) will be my official slump busters. In fact, they are harbingers of good things to come, me thinks. Today busts the slump. Tomorrow will make my commitment to the beer blogosphere complete. After that, I’ll argue whether this should be a beer blog or a music blog. Somewhere, I have a show or two to attend and a record to review. So, Building International Coalitions should be fine regardless of how little time I have to dabble.
Note:
1That’s right. A Thursday. Actually, the post is set for Friday.
Gentleman Dabbler
In the August Spin[1], Stephen Malkmus shows off his living room. At some point, he describes his record collection…
I have all kinds of weird records that I could talk about – not as many as deep collectors, but as a gentleman dabbler, I have some stuff.
The part of that quote that caught my attention was the term “gentleman dabbler,” a term that seems to refer to someone who is experienced and knowledgeable on a particular topic but not as much as the “experts” of said topic. A gentleman dabbler has a nice collection with some unique pieces. His knowledge is vast enough to know what’s good and what isn’t, but it – like his collection is not comprehensive.
Take Malk’s record collection. It would be hard to believe that someone who has been in the business as long as Stephen Malkmus has doesn’t know a thing or two about records. However, he openly admits that he’s no completest record snob. Unlike Thurston Moore[2], Malk can openly admit that he doesn’t own every record.
It is tough to admit that one doesn’t own every essential record or hasn’t tried every beer when others look toward someone for blanket consciousness. Let’s imagine that someone publishes a blog on a subject…or two. Should he be required to know everything about those subjects? I don’t think so. It’s not possible.
The gentleman dabbler allows for holes in knowledge base or collections. These holes allow for learning and discussion. I feel as though I am a gentleman dabbler. No one comes to this blog for research purposes or expertise[3]. They come here for entertainment and discussion. If you want expertise, you’ll look elsewhere.
That said, I struggle to fit into the beer blogosphere. Anyone can write a music blog. We give our opinions with varying degrees of knowledge. On beer blogs, a certain amount of expertise is expected. This is troubling as I get a lot more attention for my beer posts than I do for music. Luckily, most people have been kind.
So, keep in mind that this blog is for the gentleman dabbler. I dabble in indie rock. I dabble in craft beer and home brewing. This is not a place for expertise. This is a place for discussion and entertainment. Thanks for dabbling with me. There’s more to come…
Notes:
1Yes, I read an issue of Spin. I had to fly this past weekend and left my book at home. This was the best choice on the airport magazine rack. Spin is my generation’s Rolling Stone. That should tell you all you need to know.
2The scope of Moore’s collection is legendary. He only keeps a small portion in his apartment, but there is a storage space somewhere that would be every indie geek’s wet dream.
2Well, except for poorly written SPAMbot messages I get from time to time. Something like: “I so hapy I find you blog. It will help with a reserch project I must compete. Keep up the good wok!”
Gypsies
The gypsy is alive and well my friends. No, I’m not talking about those who wander southern and eastern Europe in search of an easy mark. The kind of gypsy to which I’m referring is that of the craft beer and indie rock worlds. Throughout those scenes, there are examples of loner craftsman wandering between breweries and bands and creating product that defies typical industry definitions.
As is usual with these sorts of things, the indie rock gypsy is way ahead of the the craft beer variety. Musicians have been using monikers normally reserved for bands of two or more people for projects with revolving members. The freedom to make all the major creative decisions for a band without worry of the band breaking down has to be a plus. And when they want to pick up and move, there are no band members holding them back. Then, when there is a creative problem to solve, they can call on hired guns to figure them out.
Take Bright Eyes for one. BE is basically Conor Oberst (later to include Mike Mogis) and whichever friends he could round up to fill spots on his roster. His sound and dynamic have generally stayed constant, but Oberst is able to create something new each time out by simply adding a few pieces while replacing others. Oberst could have gone it alone as a solo artist (which has done and probably will continue to do), but he must have liked the comforts and support a band provides. Fewer bands are as tight as an Oberst-led group and there always appears to be a great chemistry. As a gypsy, Oberst was able to move his operation to Brooklyn from Omaha without skipping a beat. Bright Eyes was not the first ever or only gypsy act in indie rock, but it has been an extremely successful one.
Interestingly, Brian Strumke, gypsy brewer of Stillwater Artisanal Ales, revealed to me that he is a big Bright Eyes fan, but their connection as gypsies in their fields don’t end there. Both have stayed true to their hometowns. Strumke brews in Baltimore and Oberst has done most of his work in Omaha. Both have traveled to “meccas” in order to continue their crafts with some Stillwater beers being brewed in Belgium and a Bright Eyes album or two written and recorded in Brooklyn. Both men have honed their crafts into something unique that often defies categorization while still giving a nod to their influences.
The gypsy is able to break free from the constraints and tradition of his craft. The typical indie rocker is stuck with the band structure that determines how many parts to consider in every song and even how many seats to provide in the tour van. Your average brewer must consider the additional costs of running and often upgrading brewing facilities. The gypsy is not bothered by either. His band can take any shape. He can brew in this brewery or travel overseas to brew at another. The gypsy is without the typical worries that dog their more sedentary counterparts.
And why is this gypsy-fication of indie rock and craft beer on the rise? Besides the freedoms mentioned above, we live in a world that is simply more conducive to the gypsy approach. For one, we are a more global society. Due to decades of migration and multicultural educational initiative, we no longer live in a …. society. There’s a reason American brewers make Belgian styles and popular music demonstrates influences from all over the globe. Secondly, technological advancements have made it possible to coordinate projects in multiple locations. Conor Oberst can work in Brooklyn while his Omaha label Team Love GM lives here in Columbia. Brewers can easily participate in beer scenes all over thanks to social media. The world is too small for these creative types to stay in one place. Bands and breweries will just keep them down.
It’s an interesting development that has produced some pretty great results. Below are a few other gypsies I admire.
- Crooked Fingers is the “band” name Eric Bachman (Archers of Loaf) uses. He lives out of vans and people’s couches, but he finds time to round up some players, record records, and hit the road. What started out as a side project of woe has turned into a great bar band, no matter who’s backing Bachman.
- Pretty Things Beer & Ale Project is one of the most sought after breweries in the scene right now. I don’t know all their particulars, but they make some artful brews and incorporate a nose for design.
- Bon Iver started out as Justin Vernon, fresh from band and girl breakups, heading out to a Wisconsin cabin one winter to record one of the most textured and heartfelt records of this century. He seems to have a regular touring band these days, but no one questions who or what Bon Iver actually is.
- Mikkeller is the gypsy from Copenhagen we American beer geeks adore. Not surprisingly, he has a connection to Stillwater as they have collaborated on several brews, some yet to be released.
Fleet Foxes
Some bands can’t help the kind of audience they attract. Of course, if you choose to make certain kinds of music, you get what you deserve. Play silly pop-punk; you get the Hot Topic set. Play drugged out shoegaze; you get artsy-fartsy followers. Play anything jammy or rootsy…
Fleet Foxes are no different. They attract a certain crowd, especially now that they’re a know quantity. Pitchfork buzz and Sub Pop marketing has allowed them a status typically reserved for My Morning Jacket or Band of Horses. Every college bro knows who Fleet Foxes is. And despite the fact that Fleet Foxes hasn’t reached the depths of college rock aridity, they are just feel-good and jammy enough to attract a whole lot o’ bros.
I witnessed this Monday night at the Uptown Theater in Kansas City. One would assume a bearded band lauded by Pitchfork would attract only bearded boys who read Pitchfork, but one would be wrong. I saw more beards last week in a tiny club the tenth the size of the Uptown in DC when I had the pleasure of witnessing Bill Callahan and all his non-bro glory than I did Monday night. It may have been the crazy hot temperatures we’ve had this year, but there weren’t a lot of beards, not as many as you’d think. There was, however, a shit-ton of cargo shorts and summer dresses. That’s right, even Pitchfork darlings attract Joe and Joann College when they play jammy, down-home music with falsetto and harmonies galore.
The heat generated by all the bromance in the air and stench of Axe body spray failing to cover up all the BO was too much for me. I retreated to the lobby to listen about two or three songs before the end. And listening was all I needed to do to enjoy the night.
Fleet Foxes are the real thing in terms of transferring that stirring sound on record to the live stage. Even with voices weary from the road, the band was able to recreate the beauty contained on their 2+ albums of work. Aside from the mentioned voice fatigue, if frontman Robin Pecknold could ever get a guitar to work correctly, the performance would have been flawless.
I know that I shouldn’t base my feelings for a concert on the audience, but it’s hard when you spend a show among them, separated from the band. I won’t write off Feet Foxes because of this. Hell, despite what I suggested above, I don’t lump them in with the vanilla roots of My Morning Jacket and the slowly fading Band of Horses. No, Fleet Foxes are much better songwriters and craftsman than those bands. However, if they continue to attract the same kinds of crowds, I don’t know that I’ll be seeing Fleet Foxes again. I may have to join the cynics and cranks who hate the sort of thing they do. These critics will tell me “I told you so” and I’ll have to admit they were right. Still, Fleet Foxes is not a shitty college jam band. Monday night proved that. I think.
Obsession
I am currently hooked on the show Dexter. I don’t watch a ton of TV and tend to wait for things to come out on DVD or some “free” service online just to see if it has staying power. For those who are not familiar, Dexter is a forensic investigator who specializes in blood splatters by day and a serial killer who only kills proven murders by night. He is consumed with a need to kill and a need to seek justice.
There are also two books in my rotation at the moment. John Sellers’ excellent memoir about his dad’s fixation with snakes lies half-read on my iPhone. Also, I am reading a novel by famed rock manifesto poster Camden Joy called The Last Rock Star Book: Or Liz Phair, a Rant. In Joy’s “fictionalized” piece, his research of a certain nineties indie starlet begins to get crossed with his infatuation with loves and dirty deeds in his past.
What all these pieces have in common is obsession. Dexter obsesses over every kill. Sellers’ dad obsessed over a particular variety of snake found in a Michigan swamp to the detriment of his marriage and relationship with his kids. In Joy’s book, the narrator, also named Camden Joy, begins to blur his obsessions with his current assignment to hunt down Liz Phair, all the while, he writes what has to be the longest record review in history. I mean, it’s an entire book.
Obsession takes over our lives. It does mine. Take the subjects of this blog. I have two obsessions that never seem to leave me alone. All I can think of is which record is coming in the mail this week or how we’ll work out babysitting for tonight’s Fleet Foxes show. The beer obsession is trickier in that it comes off as if I’m an alcoholic. I will admit to having one or two beers too many, but this stems more from wanting to try more beers, not to get drunk. My cellar is nearly busting at the seams and I’m having to make room for more homebrew as well as “shipments” from out of state. My bank account has taken a hit from both, but it may be my attention that takes the biggest hit.
Saturday was not one of my finest moments in beer drinking. It was near 100 degrees and I attended a picnic with my beer club. A few high ABV sips later, I was not in great shape and all due to my obsession to try as many rare beers as possible. The episode made me rethink some of my beer consumption (along with my declining health) and I wondered if I could give up such an obsession. The same would go for the records and the concerts or even this blog.
Luckily, these are just obsessions and not addictions. We obsess over things we enjoy or things that motivate us, but we don’t die from wanting them. If I quit any of my obsessions, I’ll be alright. There was a time I never thought I’d quit buying baseball cards, but I survived that too.
So, the obsession with indie rock and craft beer rages on. These are tough things to give up. And now that I can’t stop watching Dexter or have two books I’m enjoying, you can just add it to the list.
Why We Hate Geeks, Nerds, and Snobs
That’s right. I’m in-favor of the Oxford comma and I’m back from the dead.
I could have easily added connoisseur to the title, but that’s been covered already. Regardless, we hate them all, even if we are geeks, nerds, or snobs ourselves about beer, indie rock, or whatever. There are things we…er….they do and say that cause us to reject their ideas of beer and music. Although they are extremely knowledgeable in whatever special interest, we tune them out as to listen to them sucks all the fun out of something that should be enjoyed by all. Some acknowledge their own snobbery and are more accepting of others. However, most of us don’t like being told how to enjoy a good beer or an album.
Below are the ten things geeks, nerds, snobs, and connoisseurs do that makes it hard to take their advice and opinions on beer and indie rock seriously.
10. It was always better way-back-when.
Pavement was so much better on their Slanted and Enchanted tour than their reunion tour last summer. OR The ’08 120 Minute IPA was far superior to this year’s batch…For those who have discovered a band or beer just recently, there’s no way we can know what it was like to experience either when in their prime. It’s an unfair detail to mention in conversation. Age does not mean one has experienced all that is worth experiencing, particularly if you’re still in-search of white whales.
9. “Yeah, that’s nice, but have you experienced…”
It doesn’t matter what cool story you can bring to the table, the “expert” will always have one to top yours. I loved the Yo La Tengo show last month, but there are lots of people who thought the variation they saw on the spinning wheel was superior. Maybe. Why can’t both experiences be great? Why is a beer on tap automatically a better tasting experience than from the bottle?
8. No dialogue, just references.
This one is an epidemic for my generation. We don’t have conversations these days. We make pop culture references as way to make some meaning or connection in our lives. This practice is particularly bad when beer nerds and indie geeks “discuss” their tastes. Sea and Cake. Joan of Arc. Coctails. Rachels… La Folie. Russian River Supplication. Pliny. Dreadnaught.
7. Name-dropping when you’re not on a first name basis with anyone of note.
I love the guys who refer to their heroes on a first-name basis because they spoke to a guy at the merch booth or told a brewer how much you loved his beer. I met Brian Strumke of Stillwater Artisanal Ales at a bar in D.C. earlier this week. We chatted for while, we friended each other Facebook, but I don’t know that I’ll talk about “Brian” as if we’re close. He was a cool guy and I couldn’t resist mentioning him in this post, but our conversation doesn’t give me any more insight into craft beer than you may have.
6. Although that was great, I know how it could have been better, epic even.
You’re out, enjoying one of your favorite bands when your connoisseur buddy turns and says something like “This would have been waaaay better had they just played ‘South Carolina.'” Maybe, but they didn’t. Why ruin a good time by focusing on what didn’t happen?
5. “What do you think? I hate it.”
Ever been asked by a friend or acquaintance whether you liked a beer or were digging a band on stage and when you say you do like it, your partner proceeds to explain why this beer is infected or the band is completely off. Instead of offering his opinion first, he tests you to see whether you’re worthy or not and then details how wrong and ignorant you are.
4. “Have I told you this before?”
Snobs love to hear themselves talk and a big part of that talk is the one story he tells you over and over like it’s so amazing that you grow more impressed with every new telling. I don’t care that you saw Elliott Smith during his Either/Or days. Wow, great. You’ve been to Russian River and tried every beer on the sampler tray. It gets so bad that you start to think that this is the only thing your snobby friend has ever done and does that really qualify him as a snob?
3. Picking apart every last detail until enjoyment is impossible.
You’re sitting there, sipping on this excellent IPA, and watching the hottest band on Pitchfork. In one ear, you have your buddy explaining why the hop profile is out of balance with the malt bill. In the other ear, another friend is pointing out how the bassist is so drunk, he’s missing every cue. Who gives a fuck? Just enjoy the beers and show.
2. Once you come around, let’s throw out something shocking.
OK. So, you’ve figured out your discussion mate. He loves the sourest beers. He only listens to vinyl. Then, he drops the bombshell just to prove that he thinks about these things on a different level than you can comprehend or that he just knows more about everything… He loves the hop presence in a Miller Lite more than Pliny the Elder and still listens to his cassette tape of Hall & Oates’ Big Bam Boom, possibly the best album of the 80’s or so he claims. Really? Aren’t you just being ironic? Bad taste is bad taste, especially when one should know better.
1. The lecture.
Much of what’s been described above could be part of the snob’s lecture. The lecture is when your friend insists on dominating the conversation, constantly steering it to the one or two areas in which he assumes he is the most knowledgeable. There’s no listening on his part, just talking. And talking. And talking. Sure, he knows his shit, but there are other perspectives and opinions to consider in a discussion. Your opinion isn’t the only one that counts!
Of course, I resemble every one of these characteristics. I’ve done them all, but I feel I’ve been subjected to my fair share of each. Either way, I think it’s important we recognize these characteristics in anything in which we are knowledgeable experts and/or pathetic obsessives. And once we recognize the signs, we should try to avoid them and listen to others. When we see it in others, we should recognize that there’s good knowledge in arrogance and pretension.
Still, the backlash directed at beer nerds and indie geeks seems to resemble anti-intellectualism or anti-elitism that runs rampant through our political climate at the moment. These experts are valuable parts of our communities. They can connect dots and provide insight when it’s lacking. The trick is to not let that abundance of knowledge overwhelm or drown out enjoyment.
Update: Due to some developments elsewhere, I am adding an eleventh point. Since I didn’t rank the ones above, it doesn’t really matter where I stick this addendum. Once again, it should be acknowledged that I have committed many if not all of the above offenses. #11 is no different. In fact, if you follow the link at the beginning of this update, you’d see what I mean.
11. When someone doesn’t know when to stop…A new rule of thumb will be to limit myself to three comments in proving a point. In f2f situations, this could be a rule to make three points, then agree to disagree. The hated beer nerd/indie geek will not let something go. He has to have the last word, picking your argument apart, often diverting from the original statement. Normally, when I find myself in such a situation, I try to make a joke and move on. However, I recently engaged in an argument over the points made in this very post at another blog. I should have let it go, but I didn’t. In the end, I look like the ass. Of course, maybe it’s some strange consolation that my antagonist also comes off as an ass. Either way, two beer nerds arguing on a comment thread is a perfect way for said nerds to be ignored from here on out.
Special thanks goes out to Stan of Appellation Beer for linking back to this post and demonstrating an immense amount of patience and understanding. For a good read on beer and beer culture, I suggest you check out his blog immediately.
On Reissues: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
The reissue is a right of passage of sorts for rock bands these days. Take an album that’s classic, hard to find, by a band with a legacy to uphold, or some combination of the three and you have a perfect candidate for reissue. Some come with extras while others are just a reprint of the original. Sometimes, it’s just the chance to own the vinyl version of a long-forgotten gem.
Which albums are being released? Pavement has had the deluxe treatment for all their albums so far. Bands like The Breeders, Joy Division, Neutral Milk Hotel, and many others have re-released albums on vinyl for a bit of nostalgia without the scratches. Archers of Loaf are touring this year and next in support of the reissue of their classic records, often complete with extras. Many bands I’ve followed over the years are now flooding me with reissues I must have.
Such is Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s self-titled, self-released debut. However, unlike the bands I’ve mentioned above, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah recorded their first released their record only six years ago. Is that really long enough to cement their place in history or stir up nostalgia for the days before Facebook and Google+?
Don’t get me wrong. The album is good, great even. I placed it near the middle of my best of the decade list. So, I bought into the hype – albeit a little late – all the blogs were putting out there about this band with the really long name. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is an album that deserves recognition on the level of a reissue or even a volume of its own in the 33 1/3 series.
However, after six years, is there really a need for a reissue of this particular record? Availability aside[1], CYHSY has not stood the test of time. Six years is nothing. I mean, I’ll have been married six years tomorrow and no one’s giving me a reissue. Hell, CYHSY the band hasn’t really stood the test of time. They released a record that sounded like how John Hughes dreamed, a forgettable sophomore effort[2], and then they disappeared. There was the shitty solo effort, random one-off gigs, and endless promises of a return, the last of which looks promising.
This reissue fills a couple of purposes. For one, the band probably didn’t press that many on the first go-around. The album was self-released. They didn’t have the capital, nor the distribution to sell that many records. So, why print too many that will just infest your guest room for years to come. Second, the band has decided to have another go at this rock ‘n roll thing and are touring in support of a new record. Is there a better way to resurrect a rock career than to drum up nostalgia for past brilliance? I think not.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sounded[3] like no one else in 2005. Shit. No one sounds like them now. It was bohemian, Dylan-esque and Talking Heads-like in the way every band should be. There was a ton of bass without being cliched, jammy, or funky. Frontman Alec Ounsworth had/has one of the most unique vocal deliveries in rock. He mumbles and sours at the same time. It’s as if he doesn’t give himself time to fully enunciate as he has to get the words in his head out. And the band behind him was solid through and through.
And what landed on my front porch this week was vinyl copy of a record that meant a lot to me in the first year I moved to Columbia, the first year of my marriage. So, there’s a lot of sentimental value there. I never owned a copy of the record before, just a beat-up CD-copy my sister burned for me. Now, I’m the proud owner of a thick piece of vinyl slid into a high-quality jacket with a design as unique as the album it carries.
So, as I raise a glass to six glorious years with my favorite person who’s not my daughter, I will also celebrate what is a fun, electric, and completely captivating record. I only hope that this reissue is also a return to the band’s form and they’ll last as long as I hope my marriage will last.
Notes:
1Of course, iTunes and Napster (or whatever was the Napster of 2005) were around in those days. If you really wanted a copy of this record, you could get it, but I digress.
2I suspect there were good songs under David Fridmann’s messy production, but I’m just not sure. I’m also not sure I’ll ever forgive the band nor Fridmann for that record.
3I use past tense here because they are a band of the past until they prove that this new record and road effort is worthy of what the band did six years ago. They were a great band. We’ll see if they still are.
CoMusic Review: Cicada Summer
Originally posted at the Collective…
2011 in Columbia, Missouri will forever bee known as the “Summer of Cicadas.” They rose from the ground to live, copulate, and make a lot of noise before dying. It will be another 13 (or 17) years until they do it all over when their offspring return from the earth to do it all again.
A motley crew of Columbia and St. Louis musicians collaborated on a collection of songs to commemorate the event. On Cicada Summer, music in the forms of freak folk, hip-hop, techno, joke metal, and some stuff in between all make an effort to tell 17 stories of 2011’s edition of Middle Missouri cicadas.
What follows is a rundown of the tracks. If it sounds interesting to you, check out their Bandcamp site and buy yourself a copy. You can name your price. I paid $5 at the With Heart Handmade Market, but that was a bargain.
1. Claque – “Summer Song” A nice echo-y, Coctails-esqe groove backs Ian Curtis vocals to describe cicadas as they anticipate their summer of fun.
2.J-Tran – “13 Year Itch” From what I understand, this particular group of cicadas waited 13 years to share their song, a song you hear from the beginning of J-Tran’s track. Then, over a hypnotic chorus and tinny beats, one hears the rap of the cicada, telling their story with a nerdy flow that’s easy to imagine playing all summer long.
3. nerdcamp 2K eleven – “PSD (Piercing Siren of Death)” A cappella harmonizing, rounds, vocal percussion, and hand claps are pieced together to create the shortest and possibly most charming track of the collection. Piercing siren of death? Hardly.
4. poopdeth – “sSSs” The cicada hum is more of a hard “s” sound than it is that of a “z.” A sample of cicadas loops throughout this acoustic to brings to mind Lou Barlow in his most lo-fi, Sebodohian moments. Despite that aesthetic, there are no words, just humming along with the mighty cicada.
5. Dee Bird – “Another State” This is maybe my favorite song of the summer, Missourian or otherwise. A love goes away for the summer. Tornadoes and dying cicadas just make that love miss the one she’s left behind. This is a perfect summer love song.
6. Butterflies – “Yummy! Pass the Sprinkles…” A certain ice cream parlor in CoMo opted to make some cicada ice cream. The first batch went incredibly fast and soon all the major media outlets came calling. The owner of said parlor decided that maybe calling the health department would be a good idea. That first batch also became the last batch. Butterflies documents the story.
7. Nick Browned – “Still in Love in 2024” What about the cicadas in 13 years from now? Will they still love each other the way this year’s swarm did?Electronic soundscapes with a buzz that is all cicada characterizes this track.
8. Abstraked & Mantra – “Summer for Cicadaz” Old-school beats and rhymes flow telling the 2011 cicada story at a breakneck pace. Layered and gone before you know it, much like those fucking cicadas.
9. Lizzie Wright Super Space Ship – “The Great Southern Brood” Sampled Cicadas provide the background as Lizzie Wright forces a melody that has been running through my head ever since. An urgency gets down to the science of the cicadas’ cycle, before breaking down into a sing along on your back porch. The lament of waiting 13 years to hear that song is felt and lingers.
10. TheFarthest Forests – “When the Peepers Sing” It’s amazing how many nice, sleepy love songs can be written about a bug that rears its horrifying song every 13 or so years. The melody recalls a slowed-down Sam Cooke classic quite well.
11. Robby Jones – “Oh, I’m a Cicada” Every campfire needs this song.
12. Swarm – “Swarm” There’s nothing like a joke-metal song to capture the true essence of standing under a sycamore when the cicadas were at their peak buzziness.
13. Cat Drugs – “Haiku” For the haiku obsessed.
14. Fine Peduncle – “Magicicada” Fine Peduncle smartly uses cicada samples to create an even smarter track about a sect of cicadas who are on the 17-year cycle. “Magicicada” is reminiscent of Now, It’s Overhead, a Saddle Creek band who made noisy, fast electronica that rocked harder than most.
15. Sleep In Sundays – “In The Water” Another cicada0-infested track backs whispery vocals and acoustic guitar. Like many of the tracks on this comp, “In the Water” captures the feeling of any summer in a sleepy college town, cicadas or not. Think Iron & Wine with more Beatles and less Eagles.
16. Family Psychic – “Thirteen Years” Ambient noises, tweets and twitters of what I assume is some rather manipulated cicadas humming – These are the characteristics of an instrumental track that would fit in well at the moment right before terror twilight when the cicadas are at their most menacing.
17. Chillysox – “Why Do You Keep Me Up At Night” I was out of town at the height of the cicada cycle, but I remember reading how annoying the cicadas became, often making it impossible to sleep or be heard. Still, the oppressive Missouri heat makes it hard to lift a finger to do anything about it.
For a last-second project of local bands writing and recording songs about an insect that only comes around every 13 years, this is a pretty impressive compilation. Regardless of context, this would be an impressive compilation. There’s variety, but the quality is pretty obvious from the first track on. I would recommend this to anyone who wants a document to remember the cicada summer in Middle Missouri, but I’d also recommend this compilation for anyone who loves great music.
Before all the cicadas die, buy a copy at Bandcamp and pay them the appropriate price: between $13 and $17 should be about right.
Beer and Pavement 
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