RyanHarne.com

It took almost three years for a sophomore, full-length album to be released by the duet of Fischerspooner. Their first release, #1, was a brazen musical gesture. The music videos alone caught the rapt attention of anyone remotely interested in theater performance. Trying to replicate that result would justify the long wait for a second release.

I don’t often go in-depth when it comes to music because forming thoughts regarding artistic endeavors generally takes me considerable time. That’s why I’ve been listening to this album for the past three weeks in a nauseous continium. Hopefully, I’ll be able to unshackle my poor reviewing habits for this one. It’s worth it.

I could do no less than adore #1. And after witnessing one of their music videos, I instantly realized much of the emotional aims they had in mind in designing the tracks. #1 was brilliantly eclectic with its lyrics and maintained a wonderful electronic track to turn modern poetry into song. Odyssey, the second Fischerspooner album, is just as amazing. This time around, the band retains some ambiguity in their lyrics to apply critical thought to each moment. It’s an honorable attempt for musicians to appear like an intellectual group; Fischerspooner tries by only lifting a finger and their product is full of insightful and provoking stimulae.

The music is more tailored, however. It’s less metallic and more clear-cut; they have obviously dropped some of the more exuberant syntheses for a routinely stable structure. But to that, I have complaints. The movement towards the mild does not perturb me - it almost seems like an unlikely and daring move. You’d think, after tracks like “Mega C” and “Emerge”, Fischerspooner would follow up with equally unconventional tracks and sounds. My first listen to the album almost let me down. I was looking for those harsh sounds and striking pauses, but the tracks were milder. Honestly, I was somewhat infuriated that the sophomore release that I waited for, for three years!, wasn’t as overflowing with angst as I expected.

But it works so well. As an album, everything flows into the next. The tracks seem to have similar procedural compositions in terms of verse-bridge-chorus-outro kind of things. But every track is perfectly unique at the same time. The lyrics suggest little attachment from song-to-song, but the beat doesn’t seem to die entirely once your CD/MP3 player changes tunes.

Tracks of prominence are, well, all of them. The album is a smooth, sharp drink. The last track “O” is great and is distinctly instrumental except for a few, violent cries of the words “Creation” and “Inside” which seem just as much of an integral portion of the song as do the other five minutes of music. Oh, what am I saying? This album is spectacular. You’ll discover it impossible to not want to dance to “Never Win”. “We Need a War” is stunning, and puts a unlacquered spin on a topic of current controversy.

I hate looking over this entry. I really have no place to review music. Adam is the resource for music reviews. He says in short, brief words what I try to express in a multi-paragraph entry. Ugh. I disgust myself. I need to stick to my frivolous banter. Adam, any help?

Growing up in the South has proved a trying experience. Imagine: knowing that a Southern drawl is incorrect, articulate speaking, and having to keep yourself from acquiring the various word combinations and slurs. Only the strongest make it out alive, and make it out alive without the accent. I did pretty well, not pretty good.

Today, I attended the wedding of a cousin of mine here in South Carolina. Were it not for my family members who have only minimal accents, I would have otherwise been surrounded by people who spoke as if it was of second importance. Communication anything less than total priority? Never!, I say. Anyways. It was a great time, though.

The ceremony and reception were both held on the premises of Spiegel Farms, a lovely equestrian kind-of locale. Apart from the stoned deer (deer made of stone, not the inebriated ones) and the fake sword lodged in some rock near the entrance, the whole landscape was gorgeous. Seriously, very beautiful. And the weather was pristine for the occasion. All in all, what a perfect day for a wedding!

Now, I sit, rather lay, on my bed on the fifth floor of a Fairfield Inn, Marriott-owened, and sip some substandard, free decaf coffee while enjoying internet access at no charge. Lovely, no? Not as lovely as getting this summer over with so I can get back to VT. Almost there, but I must stop counting the days.

Wrapping up the fiasco that was The Great Sideburn Experiment of 2005, I will make the following comments.

After the subsequent replies/comments, I feel I should address a few points. Charlie commented that it was as if I was taking on a new personality with the look. I understand how that might be assumed or expected from such a change of facial hair appropriation; however, I can assure you that I simply wanted to do something different. And if you recall from my initial post, someone dared me to try them out. I took the dare, regardless of the possible outcomes. I didn’t mind a few weeks of rubbing my chin as if I was in constant, serious thought.

Rianna noted that my chin structure at least demanded the evaluation period. While it didn’t last 30 days, I would agree that it was worth a shot. Yet, as Abigail pointed out, they could easily make my face look chubby.

Well, I shaved them off. Actually, I trimmed them as close as I could, then shaved; in fear of slicing my skin like deli meat. That day at work, I looked in the mirror and noticed how small my face looked. So, there is some buttress to Abigail’s side.

But, really, I was starting to realize that if the burns were going to work, I would have to take care of them. And thinking of the same distress I endure while mowing a lawn, I concluded the chops had to go. You may possibly not think of mowing a lawn as an agonizing task, but remember that I was a groundskeeper last summer; and when I think of mowing the lawn, it brings to me memories of care-taking on macro and micro levels. And to that I shiver. Yeah, no more burns.

From the beginning, this was just an experiment. Maybe an experiment gone wrong. But many experiments go wrong, and sometimes they produce unlikely products. I had no such good fortune. Maybe I should have listened to Adam’s advice earlier on:

the stubble was hot
chops are not really so much
this haiku says so

People who drive diesel vehicles, particularly the type of high-mileage diesel vehicles, know that they do not go to a gas station to get gas, they get fuel. The distinction is important. Espresso is not coffee, and vise versa; while they are from the same substance, their end result is fully detached.

Today, after work, I went to get fuel. For some reason, the up-front diesel pump that I go to is in the middle of the rest of the pumps, so I had to do some parallel parking to sneak in. But I made it, and I was getting myself some $2.20 per gallon fuel. Yum.

While pulling in, I noticed a clean, white Jetta on the other side of the diesel pump. I checked the rear end when I got out of my car and saw the TDI logo on the white Jetta. ::sigh:: I felt an instant affection and respect for the owner of that vehicle. The owner wasn’t around, however, and I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with a fellow diesel Jetta owner.

Once I fueled up, a man came out of the station area and just stood by me. I didn’t recognize that he was trying to start a conversation at first, but once I realized this was the TDI owner I lept at the chance to chat. We asked each other about our cars, transmission, miles, the usual. He seemed to not be in a hurry, and I reasoned as much because he looked in his sixties or late fifties, a possible post-retirement citizen. But he simply didn’t seem to want to end out conversation.

I then proceeded to ask how long he had his Jetta for. It looked like a 2001 from the exterior specs, but the dealership decal indicated it may have been purchased as a used car somewhat recently. He said, almost as a sigh or moan, that he bought it just a week ago. “Oh!” I said. “Wow, very nice.”

He shook his head rightfully so, but then added, “Yeah, I just filled it up with gas.”

I felt such a profound affinity with this man. Not only do we both drive VWs, both drive VW Jettas, and both drive diesel VW Jettas, but we both have also filled up a diesel vehicle with gasoline.

He needed the sympathy only I could offer. And I was willing to relate my humiliating experience to him to alleviate what pain I could. My humiliating experience, however, was less than enthralling and still eats away at me. I can remember going about 60 mph on a highway when the engine started to sputter, at which point I just pushed the accelerator even more. ::shiver::

I was a fortunte fool.

Ok, people. Let’s get serious. I’ve had enough of these “um, I’m not so sure about those sideburns” kind of comments.

I want action. I want decisiveness. I want you to come up with the best possible reasons to why I should or should not keep these wicked chops.

I will be handing out brownie points left and right. I’d like participation from the entire spectrum of readers. Vulgar or sincere; it’s the thought that counts.

Start your keypads. Go!

It is not in my nature to post brief entries solely based on links. However, I read FluxBlog today with his featured guest. The entry is about Yoko Kanno and Seatbelts. But the comic must be read to understand.

Derek was the one who introduced me to the Cowboy Bebop soundtracks. From the first few seconds of “Tank!” I was hooked. Hooked like that captain from that ship in Peter Pan. Yoko Kanno IS genius. No other person writes so many genres of music with such bravado and splendor and refinement. Check out those free downloads on the FluxBlog page and you’ll witness just the tip-o’-the-iceberg that is Yoko Kanno.

Thanks to FluxBlog and his guest, M.E. Russell. And thanks to Derek for my acquainting me with the sounds.