She'll Never Know

She’ll never know how right she was. Three days later, her words still in my ears; the Southern Belle still on the table, as empty as I feel (which is to say, not half-full). Coffee, no water, but thanks. A two nothing lead, but I have no allegiance.
She doesn’t know this but she was still right. A stranger. More of an acquaintance. She called me out: you need passion in your life. And it’s that obvious. My eyes exude it, radiated from the freckles of the iris, magnified by the glass between us. It’s written on my skin, branded in my words. It’s written on my skin: the wipe-ability of the epidermis doesn’t apply. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my headache. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my heart-ache. Was she wrong?
He could have been right. He was close. It’s half the reason we were talking at all. He was close, the cultural relativist of advice. But we both already knew the implications. The air was filled with the snow from the voices of other patrons; the generic din of a bar is uninviting to real conversation.
“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I’m well read. Am I read well? She’ll never know how right she was.

The gas station at the corner of Division and Damen. Post-work. Post-Pilsen. Post-buzzed-sweaty-bike-ride home. Post-beergarita. Post-Laura, post-Britny, post-Jim. A pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. The wind wouldn’t let us burn our lungs; the electric tension in the air should have been enough to light up. A well-timed cab regulates the level of cotton and jean aridity. Take us to Greektown. And not long after, “Remind me again why we came here.” Another four wheels home. Philosophical waxing, as if it would reach long-term memory.

Just as irregular raindrops can foreshadow the coming storm, the irregular shards of lightning striking the skyline foreshadow as well. Just as a few small raindrops lead to something grand, a few small nights out can lead to something magnificent. Welcome back, Lou.

Texts From Last Nite

Receiver: Tom Shoe Tees

2:18 AM
On my porch alone. Almort drunk. A cigarette melts. Soundtrack: lucid dreams. Smallbar tomorrow nite.

2:21 Am
Headphones. Synth bass. This panning is unworldly.

Lucid Dreams

Swim

An oppressively warm May Monday. Walking down Taylor St. to a night cookout, I didn’t know if I should pick up New Belgium’s Mighty Arrow or go full on for Goose Island’s Summertime. I indecisively concluded both. As per custom, Chicago decided to skip any form of transitional weather patterns and went from just-a-bit-too-cold to taint-sweltering-hot. So while the technical season called for the springtime ale, the actual mood dictated a beer “[t]he color of sunshine, with a light fruity aroma and a hint of fruity acidity.” Others at the cookout were less critical with their beer decisions, opting for cheaper pale lagers popular with (post-)collegiates, who were as well in charge of the music. Obviously, conversation is the rule over music at social events as these, so I didn’t mind the Radiohead in the background. Although had I been in charge of the night’s tunes, I most certainly would have included summer jam 2010 ‘Swim’ by Surfer Blood. Comparisons to Weezer and Vampire Weekend aren’t too far off, and I can’t help but think of power-pop tycoons Cheap Trick for some reason. Despite an album release in January, the band’s sound is entirely that of summer. The name alone conjures up images of beaches, sport, screw-ups. Surfer blood. Somebody fucked up. They missed the break point. Shell-shocked in the water trying to make it towards shore before drowning. Blood pouring out of lacerated shins, arms thrusting full force to make up for the lame bottom limbs. He makes it and takes a moment to realize what actually just happened. Surfer’s blood.
As for the music, I have to admit I’m a bit jealous that allmusic got to the description of “tidal wave-sized reverb” before I could have a chance, but it’s just too appropriate not to mention again. Listen to the song and imagine no reverb at the beginning. Every instrument (vocals included) is start-stop. Naturally, there should be moments of silence. Instead, the effect of near-drowning, half-conscious, underwater-blur overtakes the senses. The vocals are some of the biggest I’ve ever heard adding an indelible impact to the chorus’ chant of “swim to reach the end.” The surfer is hit, but he’s not going down, not without a fight. The arms make up for the loss of legs: swim to reach the end. An African-influenced interlude (that are admittedly all too the rage in indie rock these days) allows our wounded swimmer to catch his breath on the shore. And while on the beach, water from the tide lapping his wounds, I wonder if he is thinking the same thing I have thought recently: why the concept of ‘swim?’ An obvious trope for those on the coast, but a Midwesterner such as myself can understand the power of the concept as well (in case you missed it, that was foreshadow to a song I wrote involving swimming). And apparently the Scots do too. This year has also seen the release of Frightened Rabbit’s ‘Swim Until You Can’t See Land.’ This line also warrants repetition in the chorus, with the intermittent question ‘are you a man or are you a bag of sand?’ Consciousness and humanity drive one to swim; the negation of these leads to the stagnate state of sandbags. The interesting contrast between Surfer Blood and Frightened Rabbit is whereas there is an end to be reached for the former, the latter is more concerned with the endless, vast, impossible-to-reach-horizon of the open sea. Swim until you can’t see land. Because then what? You keep swimming. And maybe there is an end and maybe there isn’t an end, but it at least gets you away from the boredom, hopes, fears that drove you to swim in the first place.
It was an uncomfortable desire to listen to “Swim” (Surfer Blood) that forced me to write this. A feeling washed over me that I was required to listen to the song, to remember to reach the end. Many of us rejecters of the eternal claim to live by the journey not the destination. And I still uphold this statement, but can admit the naivety of it as well. The constant struggle of journey can be excessive. Swim until you can’t see land, yes, but reach another land, more land, reach the end. And rest. And repeat. It is the dynamic cycle of life that is necessary, that tension between the injured swimmer fighting towards the beach with himself five minutes later, the reflective journeyman, a heightened awareness of existence in mind. Chicago summer is here. Go swimming.



Surfer Blood: Swim

Frightened Rabbit: Swim Until You Can't See Land

Goose Island: Summertime

allmusic review of Surfer Blood