i can't stand the rain | against my window

I'm not sure if it was Tina Turner who first voiced such a sentiment or not (sometime before she declared she didn't need another hero), but either way she was onto something. Not that I'm not a fan of rain, it's a fine mood enhancing drug, it's just at times its percussive qualities can be, oh, shall we say, a little less than the zen, waves-of-water-in-a-teacup mythology its cracked up to be.

Right now a surprisingly stubborn storm is dropping this arrhythmic drum solo on the window-mounted air conditioner. It's not relaxing, it's not thought-provoking, it's not even rain anymore. It's this crazy free-jazz freakbeat that defies time signature and any expectation of a pattern. And it just. Won't. Stop.

Anyway.

Funny times in blogland today. Take a look around this little site to see WHAT'S HOT out there and you'll notice several sites hawking the songs of Band of Horses, a nice outfit from Seattle. And, you know, as well they should, dammit, BUT, it's a strange coincidence that this groundswell of internet support launches on the same day as Pitchfork drops the much ballyhooed Best New Music banner all over their review.

This is fine. Theirs is a good record, sure, and maybe the dog's still wagging the tail and folks are just looking to get some page views on this the Christmas Day of the Band of Horses hypestorm. A little bit of service journalism blogging..."You just heard about this band and NOW you can hear them. Presto! I am Blogdor, your MP3-bearing Hero. Come, let us plunder."

But, it could also be something uglier. A certain interweb groupthink where a legion of like-minded indieheads doth mobilize to further Pitchfork's agenda with their newly hip golden children. A certain bandwagoning now that a band's been deemed worthy. Hmmm. I'd rather not think about that one.

So, to end the cycle (while STILL offering the heartiest congrats to Band of Horses--nice record, honestly. A lot like My Morning Jacket, but I love those guys too, so you're fine in my book), let's change gears and transition toward a place of discovery, a place where you read a few words and ask, "Hey, who's this guy and what's all this noise he's talking about?" You remember, a vast interconnected electronic web where you can hear from various individual points of view. Who knows, maybe you'll read about this on Pitchfork in the next few days.

"Black Market," by Weather Report

Yep. Nothing sets young hearts aflutter like early jazz fusion. But hang on, stay with me. Granted, I've got a thing for this song because it will always remind me of renting a house in Northern California owned by an extremely mellow elderly gentleman named Tony who had a white pompadour and a fondness for walking around shirtless. True story. My roommates and I imagined this song was one of his favorites, especially on evenings where he dabbed a little extra English Leather on his neck and pulled his 'good' ascot out of the drawer. Nights where someone he only called his 'ladyfriend' came by for Thai food and that authentic Egyptian hookah in the corner was soon after loaded with something stronger than apricot tobacco.

Follow Jaco's river-bound bass lane. Immerse yourself in Wayne Shorter's winding saxophone as he conjures the ghost of 38 virgins sacrificed in a volcano. Look around you...there's palm trees, a steaming river and fireworks exploding into pillows off in the distance. But most of all, don't look at my landlord's navel. It's got this creepy periscoping thing going that looks like a ligament of some sort, and that kills a buzz.

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