"Almost Like the Blues"- Leonard Cohen

(From 1HeckofAGuy)

Until the release of "Almost Like the Blues" Canadian folk artist Leonard Cohen had never issued a song with "blues" in the title. Which is strange when you consider that the hyper literate characters he's created have felt them. They've stared at a knife blade and seen "salvation," hopelessly dwelled on one night of love, tried and failed "to be free." On "Hallelujah," arguably Cohen's most famous number, love is reduced to a "cold and broken hallelujah." Any one of those depressive songs (and countless others) deserved to have blues in the title, but for 47 years Cohen resisted the temptation.

That said, even this first taste of his 13th studio album Popular Problems positions the word against noncommittal words "almost" and "like." Not to mention, the music itself has a non-blues feel. A maraca twitches for the duration of the track. Wood drums clop between speakers. Piano keys quietly sound and horns blurt at random intervals. In musical terms "Almost Like the Blues" is closer to a Vegas lounge or a Greenwich Village cafe than the Mississippi River Delta.

Cohen's lyrics however need no qualifiers; the blues are in their soul. Though he turns 80 next month, the former poet's lost none of his talent for crushing insight. "I have to die a little between each murderous thought and when I'm finished thinking, I have to die a lot," he growls with stale whiskey on his breath. Despite his countless religious allusions, Cohen's never had much faith and "Almost Like the Blues" finds him wallowing in faithlessness. He admits to being a sinner and quotes a great professor on the myth of an afterlife, "there is no God in heaven, there is no hell below." From the way Cohen sounds you'd never believe the latter statement. Hell exists and its hounds are hot on Cohen's trail.

Popular Problems drops 9/21 through Columbia and you can find the tracklist below.

Popular Problems:
1. "Slow"
2. "Almost Like The Blues"
3. "Samson In New Orleans"
4. "A Street"
5. "Did I Ever Love You"
6. "My Oh My"
7. "Nevermind"
8. "Born In Chains"
9. "You Got Me Singing"

Jandek Live at the Billiken Club

In an act that was purely kismet, I came across a black cat at a Jandek show in St. Louis this past Friday. My nerves to the point of short-circuiting at waiting for the famed Rep, I wandered out onto St. Louis University's metropolitan campus to gulp down fresh air. Not 100 feet outside of the venue, standing in front of orange lawn light I saw a black cat. With its shadow magnified and light bouncing off its shimmering black fur, I was instantly mesmerized. All my long-kept Irish superstitions flew out the window. In that moment, standing on a rocky sidewalk, I could do nothing but stare. 

From the first time I ever heard the oblique artist known as Jandek, I've had a similar feeling. Every marker tells me to stay away, that if I hear one of his haunting lullabies I need to head in the other direction as quickly as possible. But I can't. When I hear his painfully whispered voice uncurling over roughly picked guitar strings, I draw as close as I can.

That strange hypnosis started before his set at SLU's Billiken Club began. Not long after he had finished doing sound checks, I saw him standing in front of the stage taking stock of the room. "S***," was all I could mutter when I saw them. I've been fortunate enough to meet the Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne and Patrick Stickles of Titus Andronicus, but I never had that moment with either of them. They both possess a terrific relatability; you feel comfort when you're in their presence. Not so with a figure like Jandek, who has spent 3 and a half decades cultivating a shadowy personae. From the issuance of his first, Ready for the House in 1978, he's felt at odds with his audience. Though they're released for public consumption, the songs are often so intensely personal it's easy to believe their release was a mistake.

In fact, one of Jandek's first exhalations of the night was "I can give it, but nobody wants it," a firm acknowledgement of his outside status. He's a nightmarish take on the idea of the "artist's artist." Artists from the Mountain Goats' John Darnielle to Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst sing the praises of Jandek far and wide, though they'd never court the same kind of chaos he so readily does. Hearing his first song of the night on the small stage, it's easy to assume the chaos comes from a place of stark loneliness, a notion that falls apart as soon Sheila Smith sets up residency at the drum kit. The chaos continues. Smith falls all over the drums; she climbs on top of them and lays her head down when she feels like it. And all Jandek can do is drift further into an unfathomable abyss, confirming the idea that "the only thing worse than being alone, is being with people that make you feel alone."

Even when she teasingly paws the Man in Black, it registers as an act of cruelty. Instead of reaching back, he retreats further into a miasma of regret and disillusionment. There's "prostitution in Chicago" he howls in the role of twisted minister. In that number, mankind's sins are laid out for everyone to see in the unbiased light of day. However the morality play is short lived, as he finishes the couplet with the borderline nihilistic "I don't care about that." Whatever humanity will do, it will continue to do until our planet permanently ices over. 

That lack of concern extends to pick-up members Matty Coonfield (of Bug Chaser, Tone Rodent) and Joseph Hess (Spelling Bee, Braining) who rotate along with Smith every few songs. Hess in particular stands out for the crop of stained golden hair he sports. He feels entirely out of place with the ramshackle outfit, until his turn at the microphone comes. Not wanting to waste an opportunity, he nearly rips his larynx as he sings. Jandek's dark aura is like Michael Myers in musical form; it won't die and only grows stronger over time. Anyone coming closer enough will be infected by it, no matter how inhospitable it first appears.

No one got caught up in the aura quite like Sheila Smith. Throughout the night she occupies the roles of: punk front woman, jokester, siren, and temptress. "Where were you born? On a ring or Saturn?" she sneeringly questions in a comic turn. The humor fades when she prances over to the Rep himself and swipes at his guitar mid solo. There's an odd sexuality to it; where either a violent laceration or tender lovemaking seems plausible. The tension does briefly dissipate when the Rep passes by Smith on stage and cracks a minuscule smile, temporarily breaking a facade some 30 years in the making. It doesn't last long. Soon the death stare consumes his eyes again as he occupies the keyboard. It's not surprising on a night where anything seems possible. Late in the set, Jandek wails "I'm here or I guess I am?" Seeing an enigma in person doesn't make it any more understandable.

"Get By Get High"- Feathered Rhino

There’s little in the music of “Get By Get High” to support such a “psychedelic” title. On the opening track from Minneapolis folk-artist Feathered Rhino’s self-titled EP, an unnervingly ragged guitar figure emerges and lingers throughout. It doesn’t sound: detuned, out of tune, or off key. No it sounds like it’s on its last leg, like it will collapse at any second. If there’s any sort of psychedelic, it’s hidden in that haunting declaration.

And considering the weight Joseph Wilcox is putting on an already rickety frame, you’d forgive it for collapsing. Immediately Wilcox is croaking “by myself,” as though he’s been lonely for so long now all he can do is genuflect on his own isolation. What started as an attempt to “find my way” has turned into a slog to find any sort of connection. You can hear the desperation in that aforementioned croak, which winds through the rafters of an abandoned barn. At some point it gives up altogether and drifts off to sleep, where an unnamed affection’s “eyes are in my dreams at night,” as Wilcox puts it. Hidden in that haunting declaration is a tinge of psychedelia. Nothing lysergic or mind-expanding, instead the sort where you’re transfixed on a singular object. Time slows to a halt. Heavy-breathing kicks-in. The “high” shifts from physical to spiritual.

Feathered Rhino is available now on Bandcamp, courtesy of Kansas City label Petrified Records.