I'm lonely. I'm on a train. I'm stoned. I'm looking at treetops. I'm thinking of my children. I'm split in two. I'm wanting to write poetry. I'm dwelling in the past. I'm feeling the wind in my hair and it's just my imagination. I'm 12. I'm 25. I'm 45. I'm here and almost now. I'm listening to the American Analog Set and loving it, letting the music blow me away.
Apparently the band has made 1,000 recordings, always in their homes, passed on by hand. They're legends, quietly. Set Free is the first time they've worked, a little, in a studio. They're just a pop band. But so deeply sweet. And "pop" in the true sense, I guess, of the word popular, trying to make likeable music that is still rooted in a sense of place and community (and of course the feeling of these things may be lost forever) (forever if we don't try).
I go on a journey when I hear them. Inside out. I feel humble. I think about the way they remind me of Australia's Machine Translations and J. Walker. I wonder at how the world is musical by its very nature. I'm sad to report their joy is often qualified. I'm trying to penetrate some mystery about them that won't speak its name ("My tongue is swollen!" the singer exclaims). I'm entranced by what I can't get at logically. What's this stuff made of: hushed vocals, shuffling drums, dangerous bass, flying and restraining guitar? Is that all?
Oh well, I'm into this. I put it on, I listen, I feel noble by association. I feel free and I want to run with it in my ears. I feel like I've been shot. Shot with something good. Eventually I disappear, melody, vapor. |
