Hello and welcome to Elsewhere, which is where I will talk about songs I like and that I did not write.
I hear you out there. Pounding your fists on the table. "A music blog? For chrissake, what is this, 2004?" I know. I know. I already did this back in the day, and I quit for a reason. Well, lots of em.
But: It's February and the winter doldrums that thoroughly engulf Brooklyn this time of year are making all my friends tell me they're moving away again. More snow is falling as I type. My room is a mess. My girlfriend's in another state. It's Valentine's Day. At work this afternoon a woman handed me her credit card and it felt like she'd just taken it out of an ice bath. I shiver every time the subway doors open. My friend Pete got a 165 dollar parking ticket and then was late to work because his orange-ticketed car was iced over (NYC car owners know there is no worse feeling than spotting that offensively cheery orange from the far end of the block). A black cab took a turn through a walk signal today at about 30 mph and nearly killed me. They didn't even brake at the point when I know they must have seen me, and I found myself hammering on the rear window as they passed and screaming "IT'S A FUCKING WALK SIGN" like that was a thing I feel ok doing in public. In short, Fuck February.
On the other hand, Feb and I, we have to coexist for another two weeks, and I'll be damned if I'm just gonna roll over and spend those hours just watching the endless scroll until my brain glazes over like Pete's car. I'm gonna be a part of that endless scroll.
I've always loved making mixes for various purposes. Driving, sleeping, fucking, cooking, despairing, feeling like an all around badass. I love music as focal art but I also love it as color for the world or as medicine for moods. My old cavernous loft in Bushwick was always freezing because the windows leaked (leaked is inadequate, they leaked air like a fire hose leaks water) but the room just got warmer when Bill Evans or Lennie Tristano was playing. Listening to Jim O'Rourke's organ drones at a low volume on the subway on headphones makes even the most mundane eavesdropping into a religious experience. Crossing Prospect Park in a blizzard: Arvo Part's Fratres. Alone in a cabin in Michigan for 3 weeks: The Flying Burrito Brothers cover of Wild Horses. When depression threatens I listen to music so opposed to depression that they can't possibly coexist. I also do pushups. When it takes over I listen to wallowing music until I get bored.
Anyway, last night I made an updated version of a sleeping playlist I've had in some form since I lived in Copenhagen and I remembered what joy it gives me to play new music for people, to talk about the minute details in the mechanics of the music that somehow translate to the surging of the heart.
So, starting tomorrow, please enjoy the sweet sounds of Elsewhere.