Five Song Friday: Beware the Wandering Mind
This Week: Vague Flesh, Hobo Insults and Big Ass Baked Potatoes
Music makes my brain work.
Yes, I know blood and oxygen are important. And the nerves and electrical currents play a part. But nothing gets my synapses snapping like a great song.
It’s not just me. This is a science thing that science people have studied and written about extensively. Just ask the internet.
Brain experts discovered that music triggers memories and emotion and creativity. It can expand imagination, thought and perception. Once those sound waves slide in through the ear canal, they light up billions of neural receptors like a disco ball.
Think of the human brain as a car engine.
I don’t really understand how engines work, but I do know that if you open the hood and pour gasoline on it, your car will go faster. And if you flip the switch cover and press the red button thingy during a close street race, you will definitely win.
Music is my brain’s gasoline… and also its red button thingy.
With music, I feel like I can unlock the secrets of life and solve the mysteries of the universe. Putting on headphones feels like changing into Superman’s tights or activating Iron Man’s armor. Once I hit play, I am alive and firing on all cylinders.
Which makes it even more confusing when sometimes, the only thing I can think about at a concert is how come the roadie doesn’t realize he’s flashing six inches of butt crack to 10,000 people.
Or who does the band’s laundry between gigs and how do you clean a sequin pantsuit.
Or wondering whether the angry security guy is secretly excited to be so close to the stage and what steps went into his decision to get that neck tattoo.
During live shows, my mind wanders to weird places.
But I looked it up and “mind wandering” is also a real, science-proved thing. And it’s common during reading, driving or listening to music.
One abstract I found summed it up like this: “when the current goal is deemed insufficiently rewarding, the cognitive control system initiates a search for a new, more rewarding goal.”
Unfortunately, some of those “new, more rewarding goals” are just straight up dumb.
Like when I worry about how I look to people on stage.
I know band members have plenty of other things to think about. But once in a while, there will be someone up there giving off a “super-judgy” vibe.
I don’t mean to generalize, but most of the time, it’s a bored-looking bassist. He’s doing his laid-back bassist impression with the whole finger plucking, dangling cigarette, and chicken neck schtick, just scanning the audience.
Maybe it’s innocent and he simply wants to connect with the fans or see if his good buddy Gary showed up. But in my head, he is sitting in judgement.
And at some point, those wandering eyes have to land on me.
When it happens, I wish that we could communicate telepathically so I could explain (or apologize for) myself.
Like when he sees me standing expressionless and staring into the middle distance I can tell him that it has nothing to do with the music or the quality of his playing.
I can say, “You’re doing great. That last keyboard solo just reminded me of something I forgot to include on my federal tax form.”
If he sees me doing my foot-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-nodding, concert dance?
I can say, “It’s not Kevin Bacon in an abandoned warehouse, but it’s the best I can do.”
When he sees me not clapping after the lead singer has clearly requested that everybody clap, I can say, “There are enough other people clapping. I paid a lot of money to hear you make music. If you want to hear my clapping, you can pay me.”
I can handle most everything… until he watches me slip into a sweet groove.
You know that moment when you forget you’re in public and you close your eyes, bite your bottom lip and go full Stevie Wonder with your head? Inside you feel like Miles Davis, but outside, you look like Elaine Benes.
If I open my eyes after that and the bassist is looking right at me? There’s nothing I can say. I’m busted. Mortified. It’s all over.
I can mouth the words “I’m sorry” a thousand times, but his look of disappointment shows me that I’m beyond redemption. At that point, I consider leaving. I think about running for the exit before the waterworks start.
Then I remember that he’s just a bassist.
And nobody cares what the bassist thinks.
DJ Crankypete
Five Song Friday 013
“Foot of the Hill” - Boxed In
I read that British singer, songwriter and producer Oli Bayston was inspired to name his band after paintings by Francis Bacon.
If you know Bacon’s artwork, you might be concerned that it also influenced the music made by Boxed In.
Bacon’s paintings are the stuff of nightmares, and any songs inspired by them would likely sound like power tool noise mixed with the agonizing screams of people getting folded into pretzels or having their skin flayed off.
Thankfully, Boxed In doesn’t sound at all the way that Bacon’s paintings look.
In fact, The Guardian once labeled Boxed In’s vibe as “quirk-funk a-go-go,” which sounds adorable. Who doesn’t love “quirk-funk a-go-go?”
“Quirk-Funk A-Go-Go” sounds like a Swedish breakfast cereal, a Japanese soda pop or a dewy eyed Pokemon monster.
“Quirk-Funk A-Go-Go” sounds much more appealing than a song inspired by an oil painting called “Blurry and Horrifying Figure Study #4 with Exposed Ribs, Blood Spatters, Vague Flesh Masses and Oddly Placed Teeth.”
Which is NOT at all how I’d like to be described on my last day alive.
“Bang the Drum” - Railroad Jerk
Oh brother, I’ve known some real railroad jerks in my time.
They hang around the train yard acting like they’re so superior.
They’re like, “Look at me! I have a fancy bindle and shoes without holes!”
“My couch cushion makes a much better pillow than your cinder block.”
“I still have all my toes… and more than half of my teeth!”
Big whoop. I believe that all hobos are created equal.
If you’ve become so full of yourself that you have to belittle your fellow railway wanderers with bragging and insults? Then you should renounce hoboism, rejoin society, get a part-time food court job and quit using twine for a belt!
Fortunately, I don’t think any of those railroad jerks have anything to do with the band Railroad Jerk from Trenton, New Jersey. And as far as I can tell (from a few publicity photos and the album cover) the band members are nice folks who don’t mock people who’ve lost three little piggies to an open-top coal hopper.
What do they sound like? Great question. I’ll refer you to a 1995 CMJ record review of their album, One Track Mind, by Cheryl Botchik, who described Railroad Jerk’s music as “Lazy, drunk, and hip, but with full lucidity.”
Which is EXACTLY how I want to be described on my last day alive.
“Washed Up” - Sharktank
Sharks are awesome. Tanks are also awesome.
Put them together and you are well nigh unstoppable!
This Austrian lo-fi, indie hip-hop trio knew exactly what they were doing when they named themselves Sharktank. They knew that combining two awesome things makes them twice as awesome.
But the combining of awesomeness didn’t end with the band name.
Instead of choosing to either rap or sing their songs, they decided to do BOTH. I kid you not! That strange sound you hear in “Washed Up” is the vocal baton getting passed back and forth between rapper Miles and singer Katrin Paucz.
One second he’s talk-singing and the next minute, she’s sing-singing!
It’s crazy, but it works!
“That Stuff (Allergies Remix)” - Bazza Ranks, Imagine This, The Allergies
Lyrically, this song is a masterwork of generality.
Can the title get any more vague? What “stuff” is he talking about? Is it drug stuff? Sex stuff? High fructose corn syrup?
I’m confused but I can’t stop shaking my booty, so I guess it doesn’t matter.
“The Steak Place” - The Fall
This song makes me hungry.
“The Steak Place” is a snappy classic from Mark E. Smith and his band of brilliantly creative art-punk-indie-rock music makers.
When I close my eyes, I can picture those big ass baked potatoes by candlelight.
I remember them being as big as my head and looking like they had exploded from the inside out. Topped with an obscene amount of butter and sour cream. Sprinkled with chives.
I have so many fond memories of the steak places of my youth. Going as a family was always a big deal.
I remember the dimly lit dining rooms full of dark wood with blood red carpet and low ceilings. Part medieval castle and part airport hotel cocktail lounge. High-backed chairs. Shiny rolls in wicker baskets.
The best part was when they brought your steak, it came with a serrated knife as long as my forearm. Yes sir, the only thing more exciting than a big ass baked potato was that big ass steak knife. It had a great weight to it and could really tear up a piece of sirloin.
Goddamnit I loved those knives.
Listen on Spotify
Listen on YouTube Music
That’s all for now.
Thanks for reading!
“Virtually every writer I know would rather be a musician.” - Kurt Vonnegut