Disc-overy

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #12: MAXimum Cool

Yesterday my friend, neighbor, prolific tweeter, great writer and all-around Special Boy, Max Robinson, asked for a playlist to listen to at work, "preferably with some stank on it." I did my best to acquiesce to his request, as he's been a super-great dude since I've known him--and because it wouldn't be a #Pals Music Club entry without, well, #pals, I pass the savings along to you!

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #11: Merry #Palsmas!

So my initial plan was to do a Christmas song a day from a big ol' random playlist from December 1 to 25. Then I got sick, and otherwise distracted, and who wants to read about one song per day? But here's that playlist I put together for that purpose, now re-presented for your enjoyment these last few days before Christmas.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #10: Go Ahead And Axe Me

Yesterday on Twitter one of my friends and followers, the funny and talented AxlCalrissian, posed a question about favorite guitarists. Despite its place in the canon of rock and roll, the guitar is not as commonly an instrument I think about, compared to bass, drums, or piano (my first favorite rock band as a teen eschewed guitar entirely). But I knew I had to answer, as a bona fide music geek.

In no particular order, here are 21 (I'd count 20, as "Eruption"/"You Really Got Me" should always be listened to together) examples of great guitar work. Here (in order), we honor these luminaries:

Edward Van Halen

Prince

Glenn Tilbrook

Nils Lofgren

Nile Rodgers and Stevie Ray Vaughan

Stevie Ray Vaughan

David T. Walker, Louis Shelton and/or Don Peake

Johnny Marr

David Williams

Roland Orzabal and Neal Taylor

Peter Buck

David "The Edge" Evans

Paul Westerberg

Stuart Adamson

Tim Farriss

Steve Lukather (and Eddie Van Halen again)

Billy F. Gibbons

Chris Hayes

Nile Rodgers (again)

Scott Gorham and Brian Robertson

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #9: The Roommate

Today is my roommate's birthday, and as someone who is just wild about informing the world of my feelings at any given moment, I wanted to say some vague but hopefully powerful words about the person I share an apartment with.

Living with someone can be hard. I had five roommates in college, and I largely liked them most after we stopped living together. When my roommate and I agreed to take the journey into our neighborhood together earlier this summer, I was really worried I'd become a disagreeable sort and hinder another friendship.

Instead, I figured this was worth going at like everything else this year: head-first, as kindly and respectfully as possible. I'm going to be bold and tell you that the person you might know me as today - a compassionate, thoughtful sort who works really hard to make sure my friends feel loved - has been greatly enhanced by my roommate: an eager listener, a fast learner, someone who recognizes the beauty of art and the satisfaction of earning happiness, whose laugh is my favorite of just about anyone's.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #8: The Last Five Years

Brooklyn singer-songwriter Julian Velard is one of my most favorite musicians. This week, he plays two shows at Rockwood Music Hall here in New York; in honor of these gigs, I have put together a lengthy essay about both his music and the music of another beloved band, and their affect on my well-being. It's one of my most proudest pieces of personal writing and I hope you enjoy it.

2008:

Jeff Giles is an excellent person for a number of reasons, but his writing prowess never fails to astound me. I discovered Popdose, the cheeky pop-cultural site he founded, in the winter of my senior year; I can’t remember how I discovered it, but I won’t forget what I was reading: Mellowmas, a 25-day celebration where Jeff and his cohort Jason Hare would pick a tacky, modern Christmas recording and converse about its distinctive lack of merits. The zingy, childish trade-off between Jeff and Jason--a lived-in friendship as ripe with obscure pop-cultural references as with mom jokes--is what S. found me laughing at one finals week.

After explaining the Mellowmas concept, several minutes of silence went by. I closed my laptop and turned to her as she lounged shoeless on my bed. 

“I want that,” I said, hopefully.

“To write, you mean?” she answered. “I know, hun. And you will someday.”

“I don’t mean that,” I replied. “I mean, sure, I’d like to write like those guys. But those two clearly enjoy what they’re doing and how they’re doing that. I want that kind of friendship.” The idea that my arcane references and musical callbacks wouldn’t whiz over the heads of other twentysomethings seemed unlikely. But oh, how I wanted it.

2010:

Motivated by restlessness and the want to establish myself within the catalog music industry, I plant a domain name and write about the very reissues and box sets I wish to work with. Within months, people are reading, exponentially so. Labels start to send me things to write about. The positive, knowledgeable voice I have entered into the conversation is noticed. I write to Jeff asking to contribute to his site and hold my breath. He is elated. My writing is silly but sincere, and he genuinely loves it, and encourages me. Thanks to geography and social media, I get to know many members of the Popdose staff, all of whom are doing it for the uncynical love of writing about music. They are all exceptionally kind to me, as well as S.

2011:

The Popdose staff is unilaterally in praise of a group called The Damnwells. Once signed to Epic Records, the group, led by singer-songwriter Alex Dezen, funds a new record, No One Listens To The Band Anymore, through PledgeMusic. It is weary, literate, romantic and full of beautiful melodic pop. I do not rush to download it at first; though I enjoy what I’ve heard, my psyche is leery of taking recommendations from even trusted friends--after all, what if I don’t like it?

Jason Hare’s covers outfit Acoustic ‘80s plays a gig on the same night Harold Camping proclaims the world will end. Jeff and other Popdose friends attend. I take S, and it’s one of the best dates of my life. Butts are grabbed, drinks are consumed, somehow a bachelorette party snakes through the gig. I’m feeling the love.

That summer, I make one of a few trips to Vintage Vinyl, my favorite record store. After several minutes, I realize The Damnwells’ new album is playing. It’s amazing. I pull out my phone and tweet about the wonder of hearing this album at my favorite store. Minutes later, my phone buzzes.

“Awesome!” reads a tweet from Alex Dezen himself. “What store?”

I leave the store with a copy of the record. How could I not?

A myriad of tensions finally come to a head at summer's end. S., tired of my dissatisfaction with our retail jobs and frustrated with my desire to work on our frequently disappointing intimate lives, breaks up with me a few months shy of our seven-year anniversary. I am crushed. The Damnwells become my saving grace; Dezen's pain speaks for mine, and I hold onto a thin cord of hope that happiness can find me again.

That fall, Jeff interviews a young New York-raised singer-songwriter named Julian Velard, whose piano-driven jazz-pop recalls Billy Joel, Tin Pan Alley and Harry Nilsson. Julian has a similar story to Alex’s: he was signed off the strength of demos he posted to Myspace, only to have his label shelve his excellent “major label” debut album. Undaunted, he bought it back and continued to hustle as an indie artist. Off the strength of Giles’ interview, I check out Julian’s newest release, Mr. Saturday Night. Lead single “Love Again For The First Time” is a spiritual successor to the familiar pain of No One Listens To The Band Anymore: I now believe, more than I’d ever believed in some time, that my life could shake its cobwebs off and feel like romance was possible.

2012:

A chance call nets me a gig consulting for a major catalog/reissue label. I work in retail and on my website at the same time. It is exhausting but exhilarating.

Julian issues a new EP, Person Of Interest, and plays a show in his home of New York City in support. I review it for a friend’s site. Julian reads the review and thanks me, as if he could know what his music was doing for my heart.

I attend a show of his in September. Afterward, I go to speak to him. He eyes my Synchronicity jacket approvingly. 

“I’m Mike Duquette,” I shyly offer. “I wrote the review of your new EP.”

“Dude! Right on,” he answers. “I loved it. You really got what I was trying to say with this. You should’ve hit me up for a ticket!”

My eyes go wide. “Oh, I could never do that,” I respond. “You deserve the money.” He smiles and we take a picture. I look happier than I have in months.

2013:

The Damnwells do a special gig at The Bowery Ballroom. A series of guest musicians are recruited; Julian Velard is one of them. It turns out Julian and Alex had been friends for some time. It starts to amaze me how these things work out.

Julian starts work on writing a new album: a conceptual piece about life in New York City. I hear these songs at a special gig he puts together that summer and am confident it will be my favorite album in whatever year it’s released. Julian and I chat after the show, as has become a habit.

My Popdose friends invite me to the first wedding I will ever attend, between two excellent music writers, Matt Wardlaw and Annie Zaleski. It happens the weekend before my 26th birthday, and the camaraderie feels like a present to me from the universe.

I am given opportunities to work more days at my music job, to the point where I’m actually demoted at my retail job. Unsurprisingly, I don’t care. That fall, I pitch my first production for the new year; it is met with great enthusiasm.

At a gig for a friend’s band, I make another friend that will alter the course of my life.

2014:

Julian informs me that his new record will be heard this year. He’s so excited, understandably so. Inspired by the courage that a $10 drink minimum at the gig affords me, I boldly offer to write something for him, in a professional context. His new press bio even bears my byline, which is an incredible honor.

I am making a new group of friends--very quirky, very funny, very inviting. They are wonderful people. One of them, it turns out, is the son of the owner of Vintage Vinyl, the record store that saved me from the depths of interpersonal turmoil. I make a promise to myself to keep these people in my lives forever. I also, for the first time, float with the idea of finally moving into the city I love--the city whose hope, promise and heartache is so brilliantly captured in Julian’s new album.

The day after the first copy of the first reissue production I have ever done arrives at my office and is presented to me, I am hired there full-time. The release of the production is very successful. One of my new friends suggests that my success gives others hope. These words stick with me, and I become imbued with a sense of responsibility--to let others know that doing what you love and doing it well is entirely possible.

Julian Velard’s If You Don’t Like It, You Can Leave is still my favorite record of 2014. I buy two tickets to see one of his gigs that fall: one for myself, and one for my roommate, a member of that wonderful friend group who graciously invited me to search for apartments together. We’ve built a great home in just a few short weeks, and, as often as things can seem difficult, every day in this environment and surrounded by such wonderful people truly feels like love again for the first time.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #7: Moods and Feelings

No theme. That's right. No big, overarching statement about the world at large or my relationship to art. Today, I'm just sharing 20 songs I happen to think are pretty great. If I have anything larger to say, it'd be that these were picked by someone feeling peaceful and upbeat about the immediate world outside and the people who populate it. There's a lot of love in the air--not just people discovering bonds between themselves, but a group of weary but travelers deciding that as long as we are in each other's lives, aware and honest and thoughtful, that there are worse worlds to live in than this one.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #6: Finnthology

Like so many my age, I knew two Crowded House songs growing up: the beautifully melancholy "Don't Dream It's Over" and the upbeat "Something So Strong," both from their 1986 self-titled debut. Being a pop geek, I also knew "I Got You," from a New Zealand band named Split Enz. None of this predicted I'd become a fan of Neil Finn, a singer-songwriter in both bands and one of my favorite songwriters to date, but here we are.

I was record shopping with my old roommate Rudy when he insisted I buy Recurring Dream: The Very Best of Crowded House, their first compilation (issued as they were breaking up). Rudy could be insistent, but I knew better than to second guess his taste--and I'm sure glad I didn't. Before long I would own all eight Crowded House albums (the four they released in the '80s and '90s, the outtakes compilation Afterglow and two new albums released in 2007 and 2010).

I've also taken to tracking down the works of Split Enz, the New Wave band Neil was a part of with his big brother Tim before taking Crowded House to America. Neil and Tim's songwriting skills are both admirable, but Neil's sun-dappled, Beatles-esque approach to melody really wins my heart. (Neil had Split Enz to himself for one album, 1984's underrated, raucous See Ya Round, which is criminally unavailable digitally and expensive on the secondary market, to the point where I had a friend illegally download it for me. Sorry!)

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #5: Nite Romantics

The summer of 2001 was a fateful one. MTV did something they're not prone to doing now: reminding viewers of their age, with a summer of 20th anniversary programming to mark their August 1, 1981 launch date. On MTV2, the sister channel that played video blocks not unlike how MTV did in their heyday, there were hours devoted to one year after another, in sequence. It was here that I developed my love for a decade of synths, sequencers and some truly weird fashions.

Perhaps no band affected me more at this time than Duran Duran, that irascible quintet/trio/different quintet/quartet/quintet/different quartet from Birmingham. Their videos had a visual style that perhaps no other band was taking advantage of, and they would use directors like Russell Mulcahy, who would make visually appealing films like Highlander.

And even for a guy who can barely match colors together, their fashion was hot. Not "hot" in a sensuous way--at least, not at the time--but it felt unlike anything on this planet. The smoky, James Bond-on-pills smolder of bassist John Taylor, the androgyny of keyboardist Nick Rhodes, frontman Simon Le Bon's piercing stare to match his piercing, husky tenor...it was all the kind of untenable cool you get when you fall for rock music for the first time. (Of course, Duran are far more than straight-ahead rock, taking cues from CHIC, Roxy Music, Japan and The Sex Pistols to concoct a kind of pop-dance-rock blend that still sounds fresh more than 30 years later.)

Duran Duran were my first favorite band and remain one of my all-time favorites, to this day. From the first chords of "Planet Earth" on a CD of their first compilation, Decade, I checked out of the library, I knew they were going to be a favorite. I probably own more reissues and box sets of them than any other. (I've bought the first six albums twice, and can't say enough about the box sets The Singles 81-85 and The Singles 1986-1995.) Go back through my Twitter feed to 2009 and you'll probably find me getting excited that Rio was being reissued as a deluxe edition CD set, an announcement that took place the same day as the announcement of Beatles remasters. (Both were equally important to a college senior looking to break into the reissue business.) I've followed them through good times (a successful reunion of the original members in the early 2000s) and not so good times (an album with Timbaland and Nate Hills at the helm), and will continue to do so.

The challenge I gave myself with this playlist was to stay true to the spirit of Duran without touching a single track that was meant for radio play. Even if you don't like them, you probably know "Hungry Like The Wolf" or "The Reflex" or "A View To A Kill," all major hits. This goal was 99% easy: early Duran singles are flush with B-sides that never made it to albums, and their entire '80s output (including the criminally underrated Notorious (1986) and Big Thing (1988)) is full of hidden gems. This gets tougher as the band thinned out in the late '90s and early '00s, and I ultimately cheated and utilized one forgotten single from the band's 1993 self-titled effort ("The Wedding Album" featured Top 10 hits "Ordinary World" and "Come Undone"). Neither of the band's least regarded albums, Medazzaland (1997) and Pop Trash (2000)--both of which are owned by the band outright--exist on Spotify. I'd check out "Out Of My Mind" (a forgotten single featured in the Val Kilmer joint The Saint), "Midnight Sun" or "Playing With Uranium" from those.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #4: First Things First Things First

"I don't want to offend you by saying this," she said, walking through Brooklyn and taking drags on a cigarette, "but I really feel blessed, like God is getting me through this."

We're coming out of one of the weirdest and best summers I've ever had. I've had to learn how to adapt to the feeling of lots of friends wanting to share in and celebrate my interests. I had a birthday party that made me feel like the center of the universe. I'm leaving the nest, waiting for the day my landlord would say that yes, you and your roommate can move into your two-bedroom in Queens and start a chapter of your life you didn't think would ever happen.

I've fought hard to do right by the people I care about, to shed the scales that keep me too worried, too insular to enjoy the gifts that are laid before me--and so far, from my increasingly sunny vantage point, it looks like I am winning. I've gone from bitter, irrational jealousy of caring people to stunning, crystal-clear realization that everyone is on a journey, and if you really love someone you'll support them on that journey. (In practice, I can tell you honestly: that part's not nearly as difficult as it seems, in the right circumstances.)

So no, I'm not offended at the notion that something that governs the universe is watching out for me and the people I love. For my money, the thing I get to connect myself to most, in life and work (that's music, by the way), isn't created by air currents and chemical imbalances alone. There is something intangible at play, making sure we don't fuck up too bad, and for that I'm grateful.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #3: I Still Think Them Cats Are Crazy

After the trip through melancholy that was last week's playlist, we find things a little more on the fun, freewheeling side.

I thought it might be fun to break down the concept of #pals for a minute. Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows I started using "pals" as a sort-of ironic hashtag that my actual friends have, to my intense delight, started using themselves. Lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about what makes someone one of your #pals, and I think I've got some ideas.

Pals make you feel less weird about your eccentric tastes. Pals introduce you to wonderful new people. Pals take chances on you. Pals make you realize how crushes can turn into greater friendships. Pals listen to you blather on about a topic and get you amazingly specific birthday presents related to that topic. Pals make you laugh often, even if you're laughing about weird things like cartoon characters. Pals make you great dinners or desserts. Pals change your perspective. Pals don't just bolster your self-confidence, they make you realize how much you had all along. Pals listen.

#PALS MUSIC CLUB #2: Ordinary Heartache

There was no music as she was leaving. Only when she left--a cacophony of bruised hearts and crushed piano keys that have very little in common except that they found themselves in the space between my ears.

She left in August. Three years ago. The embarrassing metaphor of sticky, uncontained love turning cold with the first autumn chill. I put myself through the kind of hell you don't wish on anyone. Lots of crying. A half-hearted attempt at a soul patch. Embarrassing moments where you pull your engaged friends aside and try to make it about yourself--how much energy you're going to expend to celebrate their triumph.

No one takes it well, at first. Desperate for the hope of reconciliation, I would absent-mindedly text as though it would help speed things along. Getting the worst insult of my life--that I should seek solace for my loneliness with a prostitute--doesn't deter me. My energy to love someone dwindles away, but it's replaced with this weird desire to make it for myself. Nine months later, I get a call that will turn my primary hobby and chief interest into something much bigger.

It is three Augusts later. Things are better, more promising than they have ever been. Things still hurt for other reasons. I am still coming to terms with being Liked By Many But Not Like That. Friends lift me up and out almost daily, often without knowing it. (They probably know. They're not stupid.) Some days I regard the luck under which I'm living as an impetus to make everyone else feel better. Other times, like now, I figure all I can do is say even Guys Like Me have moments where they want to just be hugged and listened to.