The Musicstache

Smart, sad girls rejoice! Frankie Cosmos, also known as Greta Kline, is here to save the day. The New York City native embodies an unabashed, quirky 22 year-old with a certain predilection for bedroom rock. Dreamy refuge erupts from the inquiring one’s headphones with Kline’s April 1 release of the new record, “Next Thing”. The full-length album is a poetic excursion that plays out like a single-girl’s, single meander through the rain and into her own self-awareness. “Next Thing” offers up to it’s listeners a disjointed, yet genius set of fifteen songs that offer a glimpse into the wistful desires of love and well, puppies. Perhaps even, puppy love. 

The album starts out with the appropriately titled track, “Floated In”. The astral number allows the listener to ultimately “float” into the album. The instrumentation harbors airy drum beats and simple guitar riffs that work in sync with the fully audible lyrics. Frankie Cosmos sings, “What are you? You know I’d love to rummage through…” and in that, feelings of preverbal confusion beckon past romances and inexplicable communication breakdowns. Why can’t we just say what we want to? Will we ever be able to? Greta Kline broaches the possibility. 

The pace picks up from “Floated In” and an upbeat twang ushers in via the next track “If I Had a Dog”. Whimsical guitar stylings play off of the girl-band vibes of Vivian Girls and Tennis. A nod to Frankie’s surf rock contemporaries parody feelings of loneliness and a deeper desire for some kind, any kind of companionship. Playing off of the same feelings of emptiness comes the universally heartfelt track “Fool”. Cosmos sings in the opening of the song, “Your name is a triangle, your heart is a square. I love to see you way over there. Once I was happy, and found it intriguing. Then you got to me, left me waiting. You make me feel like a fool, waiting for you.” The lyrics are sang in a raw, untempered way that resonate like that time we all sat against the foot of our bed, close to tears, trying to understand why we let this one in. Not only is the song pivotal in evoking the universal condition, but it lends itself to a sort of thematic overlay to the whole record. The music is simple, the words are real.

Further wanderings into the mind of a young twenty-something female projects itself onto the track “On the Lips”. The song is a one minute, forty nine second homage to the desperate clamoring and fear of making the first move— say hello to the insecurities that lie below. Falsetto vocals work in contrast to the terrifying pondering of the potential consequences i.e., “if I kiss you…” Later tracks such as “Sinister” and “Is It Possible/Sleep Song” continue the record, and further the complicated, nearly self-deprecating thoughts so closely tied to this generation. Notions of self-doubt are met with manic highs, and fleeting points of pride. The brevity of each song keeps the album feeling fresh at every turn, yet the subject matter of each track hovers above the instrumentation to keep “Next Thing” pushing towards some kind of dream pop answer to why boys are, pardon my french, so fucking frustrating. Merci Frankie, merci indeed.

I’ve been frolicking in a sea of classic rock lately. I know my parents would be proud. Keeping in mind however, that I did unabashedly already tell you that this place, this page would entertain those feel good memories of days I never got to experience but entreat into a dark tunnel of my own and come out on the other side of—feeling well pretty groovy.

Last night my friend came over. My friend’s friend came over. The three of us pursued some arduous and extensive “lifted research”. One that ended with Frank Ocean, and began with the very disappointing…uninspired new Kanye record. My friend Amy, a firecracker of an asian chick with a bizarre predilection for swedish meatballs, sat on my couch laid her head back, her long black tresses mimicking the same weavings of the beige threading underneath her. Ocean’s creamy vocals and soul inspired melodies on  “Channel Orange” evoke a certain “je ne sais quoi”, and Amy was under his spell. So was I. So was the very straight boy on the other side of her. We laughed and gushed, and well it was all beautiful, yet suh suh cheesy. I loved it. I mean, I love it.

But that same magic exists not just in Frank Ocean’s appeals. Well Ocean has us, in a very high pitch voice, “thinking about forever”, so to does Van Morrison in his breakthrough group Them. One song specifically though transcends any other listening experience. It’s the 1964, Northern Irish band’s (Them) cover of Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”. Its everything. Its that heaviness I get in my chest when I look across a room and see him—and I want him, but I’m not sure I can have him. But its that tingly sensation that shoots down my arms and my spine knowing that the possibility is there.

The musical arrangement of this song wraps itself around me. I fall back and daisies? white flowers? well they catch me. Its psychedelic yes I guess in some weird way to me. It turns my cheecks red. I blush. But as I feel again like a little girl completely unsure of myself in this world (jesus, I really am that cheesy) I too also feel an extraordinary power. Because it’s all over now, baby blue…

So, since I am at the end of the day (and in the words of the fabulous Gwen Stefani) “just a girl”, I feel compelled to talk in brief about the eminent doom that is Valentines Day. It may not be a day in which I along with so many of my comrades enjoy taking part in. But it is in some ways a hallmark. It’s a little stamp on our lives in which we can reflect on where we might have been last year. Or well the year before that for that matter. This year I am unsurprisingly single. Last year I was unsurprisingly single, and the year before that? Well I was in a relationship with a person that  had unquestionably questionable scruples…and the maturity level of a fifth grader (I might have had said maturity level too, but for all intents and purposes here—let’s just forget about that). With that said, my steadfast platform as a young singleton in the city of Boston seems to grow out of a maturation that hinges on developing a sense of humor about all of it, as well as pursuing my own feminine prowess.

In the spirit of all of this and to ring in “just another day” in all of our’s near future, I present you with the song “Shut Up and Kiss Me” by the very cool, very Canadian all girl, indie pop group Pony Up! I first heard this song in high school when my friend Ali Bloom (who just like myself chooses to abbreviate her name sans y, or e— but with the much more impactful and senseful i) burnt me a CD that had them on it. There was also a lot of Interpol and Of Montreal on this CD. Thank you Ali Bloom.

The track is a circa 3-4 minute prelude to everything, every girl out there should be: fucking badass. Its through songs like this that I ascertain the totally punk rock capabilities of lunging head first into that kiss, that touch, that feeling of sexual (ew yes I just said sexual, sorry mom) esteem (or is it deviance? muahaha)

Happy Valentines little goblins.

- M

On January 8th, David Bowie turned 69 while simultaneously putting out what would be his final album, Blackstar. Bowie, two days later, shocked the world one last time, when he unexpectedly died from cancer. The album, in retrospect, not only lends itself to a compelling exploration within the art-rock and jazz genres, but ultimately, is a haunting journey in which the listener is faced with both the musician’s life and death through music.

The album was produced by longtime Bowie collaborator Tony Visconti, and in this, the two manage to create an astonishing and seamless development of sound—all of which took place in secret at The Magic Shop and Human Worldwide Studios in New York City over the past year.

The record begins, appropriately, with it’s title track “Blackstar,” a nearly ten minute dare I say it? ballad, detailing something close to the new-age, new-wave crucifixion of man, or rather, a man. However, it’s not merely the lyrics to this track, or any of the subsequent ones, that set this album apart. It’s only expected and hoped for of Bowie that the instrumentation and composition breathes new life into the sonic experience.

In the beginning of said track, the audience is met with a driving, yet syncopated drum beat. The opening half of the song is dark in nature. But in this darkness I get the sense that it is pushing us toward something: that all is not lost. The drums pick up, and an unearthly series of sounds via synthesizer introduce an almost transcendent quality in the arrangement. About halfway through “Blackstar” (circa 4:25), in a moment almost reminiscent of Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend,” organs open up to an ethereal, psychedelic movement. Something that mirrors Bowie as both heaven and hell materializes in the vocalist’s call and response contribution to the track. Somewhere, the listener is thrusted into the universe, and in what could only be the best, worst nightmare, we find ourselves moving at the speed of light, down the rabbit hole, with Bowie lucidly pulling us to and fro—between good and evil.

Behind Blackstar comes the erudite, innately jazz track “’Tis a Pity She’s a Whore,” it’s namesake bearing influence from John Ford’s 1633 play. While Bowie’s strong and staple vocal  range is hilighted throughout the track, saxophonist Donny McCaslin manages to evoke a swath of organized chaos through his instrument. The saxophone caricatures the screams of a woman’s voice, as she’s pulled down…down…down. Bebop-esque piano meets these cries, and just like that, we float again to the “aaahhs” of harmonic backup vocals.

Tracks off the record like “Lazarus” and “Girl Loves Me” offer more stark, overwhelming questions of mortality via lyricism and arrangement. But something in Bowie’s parting gift offers something like a near promise in the pandemonium of sax and keys that our beloved alien will be resurrected once again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

What I would have done to be a fly on the wall: the two greatest, meow. 

Dear World,

Long time, no talk. I apologize for the excruciatingly long hiatus. Enter now Madi— 23 years-old and fully immersed in the world of all things music. I have had the incredible opportunity this semester (my last semester…it’s been a long journey home) to perfect my craft and follow my consequential dream of being a music journalist—via directed study with an extraordinary figure within Boston’s music/journalism community. Thus, some of my works (the roughest of drafts) will find themselves here. For ’tis a shame to distance myself from one of my proudest, most inherently “me” endeavors: my baby, The Musicstache. My hair may no longer be pink but, my metaphoric mus(ic)tache is as luscious as ever.

Viva la dream,

Finally it came: the first, real Boston snow of the season. Thick, soft and sweet: the flurries of winter erupted from the sky last Sunday night, and in that came Boston’s communal artist repertoire “CLLCTV” and their Two-Year Anniversary of the city’s best dance, day party The Wave. Festivities began at 4 p.m. with a host of young, promising hip hop and DJ acts; however, it was the Boston Music Awards nominee, and social media relic Cousin Stizz, that everyone (well almost everyone) had really come to see.

A little after 7 p.m., the lights faded up in auroras of blues and greens, the crowd, per usual, began to scream. But, in this collective yell for excitement lie something new, and refreshing. In this yell surfaced pride: Boston pride. For, Cousin Stizz, a New England, or rather Dorchester native is rapidly becoming the face of the city’s booming hip-hop community. For many, Stizz offers a voice to the many that have none. The young rapper brandishes the tale of a kid, a boy coming up in the city. From the everyday struggle, to the more blatant everyday hustle, Cousin Stizz curates the dream so many of Boston’s inhabitants aspire for.

Stizz’s thick, buttery vocals that encompass his raps enrapture his audience, like the same snow falling just outside of the doors of The Sinclair that evening. The microphone echoes a sultry rhythm that beckons a sort of sonic eclair, or one of Paula Dean’s richest, silkiest banana-cream puddings. Yum. Yet, there is more—as there usually is. For the rapper’s backbone is his beats, and Stizz this evening did not disappoint. Tracks like “Fresh Prince” and “No Bells” hint at ethereal-esque producers such as J-Dilla and Flying Lotus, but offer up at the same time, that same clean edge, that drops like knives through bread, or drops onto a pool of water. It’s seamless, and soulful; yet, resonant in its inherent hip-hop nature.

The last song came and went, and when I looked over, a small girl, no more than five-feet tall was close to tears. Cousin Stizz had struck a chord in his audience, and as I surveyed the crowd, it became increasingly clear that performer is not just a catalyst for innovation within the commonwealth, but the modus operandi of DIY hip hop.

After the set, I had the chance to speak briefly with the man himself. I congratulated him on a good show, in which he responded by admitting that he had been sick with a cold. “Did I sound alright?” he asked. I laughed, and I began to rub his temples. “Should I massage your ego anymore, if this is you on a bad night, I’m not sure I could handle your prowess on a good one.” He laughed, turned a little red, and well, Amen.

Drive By Buddy

~ The Black Lips

I have a few bands, that, I’ve loved in ways, that make me feel like, I’ve just entered into something that closely resembles, a long distance relationship. Every year or so, they put out a record- you listen to said grouping of songs and all previous material in existence to a near pulp, yet it manages to never get old. You stalk band pictures, read blurbs, and stay up to date on such a band’s biggest and smallest of happenings. You love them. You care for them. You want to see them do well. Then you get sight of them playing somewhere in proximity to your home, and like a visit from your boyfriend, who lives over seas or at an opposite end of a state, your body get a warm, tingly feeling of excitement, of a love that feels so one sided, and singular. Then, the day comes: It’s a night of pure bliss. You feel like, good, actually still exists in this world: your stomach fills with butterflies in anticipation. Enter somewhere here, in between- hours of metaphorically speaking, mind-blowing, great sex, and then, sadly, as you walk out the door of assumed worshipped band’s show, your heart feels, as if it’s slowly breaking in two: as though, your long lost lover, is waving goodbye, until a somewhere far off, next time. It’s a love that is passionate, yet heart wrenching, and somewhat uncoupled to anything else. It’s a love that never gets old or typical. 

A week ago, last Friday, I saw one of my favorite bands, in the whole wide world (outside of Blondie, Blink, No Doubt, and Rancid…of course). This band being, drum roll please, the Black Lips. I fancy myself a well-seasoned vet to Lips shows: excuse my bold assertion. With that said, I can only conclude with the utmost credibility, that the evenings festivities, were like every BL set I’d seen in the past- flawless- in the most unrefined of ways. What an oxymoron of sentences.

“Underneath The Rainbow”, the Georgia natives, seventh studio album, and most recent release, wreaks of polished flower punk-dom, with moments of pop, and garage intricately sewn amongst the mix. I’d associate the over all “sound” closely to said record’s predecessor, “Arabia Mountain”: which showcased, for the first time, the Black Lips, in a far more consumer friendly light, rather than the raw, lo-fi, and seemingly lawless music associated with their earlier days. Tracks such as Drive By Buddy, Smiling, and Dorner Party stand out amongst the bunch; however, Boys in The Wood, notably, was the album’s first single. Underneath The Rainbow hints at Wavves, and it’s chart topping debut- “King of The Beach”, and then, without any real forewarning catapults into twangs of, the band’s cultural roots, a hillbilly-esque homage to southern rock.

The opening band, Natural Child, was unsurprisingly, fantastic. The Black Lips have a knack for bringing impeccable bands, on tour with them. I am instantly nostalgic for NoBunny, whose opening performance at The El Rey Theatre in LA (for BL) circa ’08/’09, felt like a beacon of hope, for an all to melodramatic, sophomore version of Madi. Needless to say, Natural Child, had a comparably awesome, yet uniquely theirs, in sound, kick off to the night’s music. To summarize: it’s (or they’re) that shit that makes you feel shit. Like, the music version of eating homemade spaghetti and meatballs- it just doesn’t get any better, nor comforting than that. 

After an all to satisfying opening set, my heroes of all things loud, chaotic, and vulgar, walked on stage. My heart was even beating somewhere above it’s normal rate. I felt the pangs of true love, permeating, first, in the pit of my stomach, and eventually, throughout my whole body. The dance floor of the Paradise Rock Club suddenly changed from a stationary shimmy erected via opening band, Natural Child, into a full-fledged sea of sweat, blood, and tears- traversing all so erratically from one direction, to the next, by the time the Black Lips were into there second song. The floor and it’s inhabiting audience may have been far from the status quo “mosh pit”; however, you can rest assured, I walked out more bruised and banged up, than any Fear or Germs set, I had been to, in the past. 

They played an even mix of old and new stuff. The band’s second encore, however, payed a certain special tribute to The Almighty Defenders and “All My Loving” (supergroup Black Lips + King Khan…check the ’Stache’s archives, for further reading on “thems”). That, my friends, was the defining moment, for me, in their set. I am a devout Almighty Defenders fan, and have fantasized many of nights, in bed, staring at the ceiling, of nothing more than hearing them play, someday, live and in front of me. In some ways, my wishes were fulfilled (minus the king, of course). 

I don’t know if it was a flushed-like appearance due to severe dehydration upon such inexplicable water loss/sweating throughout the show, or merely the blushing, of a smitten 21 year old girl; however, that fuzzy, warm feeling of either flush or blush, began to ease up on my cheeks, somewhere towards the end of the evening: and was something, that I will associate forever, with a newfound feeling of pure, unadulterated happiness- and that, that is the sign of a great show.

“We’ll be together, cause I really want is you. We’ll be forever, cause I gotta stick with you. I’m wearing leather, and I really think it’s cool: we’ll do whatever…”

- Madi

VVVVVV the Black Lips, last week @ Paradise Rock Club, Boston

Gold Soundz

~ Pavement

I'm a huge Pavement fan. There's something about Stephen Malkmus's voice that is undeniably "cool". I guess you could say, really, that there's something about Pavement, in general, that is undeniably "cool". There brand, so to speak, exudes a kind of teenage angst paired with boy meets world, sound, that offers Pavement fans, then, and now, a kind of sweet solidarity. Wow, that sentence was filled with more cliches, than I care to admit. Fuck it. Anuwaus, I've been, running, a lot…like, every morning- in an attempt to have a sound "mind and body" (Death Cab for Cutie, would be happy to know so, given their own soul's meeting their own body's, for quite some time now). Pavement seems to be the majority-holder, to my iPod; and, therefore, a majority-holder in my dewey, wintery morning runs. So, given the lyrics to Pavement's track, Gold Soundz off of Crooked Rain, and my rediscovered love for the band and my body (lolz), I found it apres-paux to include it in this month's blurbs, on the one, and only, Musicstache. 

"I remember in December..."

In Transit

~Albert Hammond Jr. 

While I was back home, in California, I had the opportunity to see Albert Hammond Jr. at the late Galaxy Theater...newly named "Observatory". It was, fortunately, or unfortunately, the same dirty, hole-in-the-wall venue, that held so many punk shows of my past, with thus, a less-than original namesake. Oh well. 'Twas an interesting drive in my brother's euro van to start. Being the catastrophically large Strokes fan that I am (didn't I tell you? must of slipped my mind...), I found it imperative that I drag my Connecticut-born boyfriend, from the beach, and far down Harbor Blvd, into the depths of Santa Ana, to said show. Albert Hammond Jr., may I say, did not dissapoint. Waka Floka's roudy audience, just the night before, had drawn out, not one, but two stabbings: I'm here to report that Hammond Jr.'s Strokes-like guitar-ings, and equally influenced, yet original compositions drew out just the opposite; the audience, more or less, was in a blissful trance. I think it's safe to say, that both Josh and I were to. Given that Albert Hammond Jr. is on tour right now, I'd offer you this: SEE HIM, before he gets to much bigger, and we'll all be grabbing at nosebleed seats, from the same arenas he plays with his former band The Strokes. 

Back to Boston, and always, "In Transit"

Love Your Friends, Die Laughing

~ Man Overboard

So, I'm sitting in the cold, in the south end, outside…waiting for my boyfriend. I am surprisingly okay with this. Why? You might ask. Well. I'm actually pretty warm. My reasoning? I just bought, last minute, tickets to go see Man Overboard, at The House of Rules tonight. We all know my love for that summer fling, season of teenage lust, makes your cheek turn bright red pop punk kind of music. Hence the internally bottle warmth. I'm an admitted addict. I tried PPA (pop punk anonymous), and I just couldn't quit it. Like the bottle, this genre warms my body, and makes me lust or more like yearn for my formative days. Although high school for me, was like many of high school stereotypes, shitty, Man Overboard brings about the few favorable feelings and memories of "crushing" from the past. It's too cheesy. It's too good. It's too Madi. I'll see you all there, tonight. Enter cheap beer, and cigarettes…puhleez.

"I left my heart with my phone in my center console. I left my feelings with my wallet and my keys. I feel so stupid because I came here without anything, but I’m finally at ease…"

Shape of My Heart

~Noah and The Whale

You want to talk about Nostalgia? I'll tell you all about it. I think, for the first time ever, I finally, truly, know what it's like…you know, to be old. Ok not REALLY old (my mom would be steaming reading this), but rather, overcome with a feeling like, you may never have what you "had", and the music of your past (or your "youth"), is really all you can cherish; for, time catapults you, sometimes, faster than what feels like the speed of life…I mean speed of light. 

Let's rewind. The year was 2009, and in what could be likened to the peak of my awkward, insecure, and budding sophomore year of high school, I clung to the sappy lyrics, and melodic…possibly, really, actually, symphonic stylings of a band that knew love, knew heart break, but most importantly knew loneliness. They were beautiful. They were also British…and what American 15 year-old doesn't love a good British accent? Cue so brooding, right meow. 

The band was Noah and The Whale. The record was Peaceful, The World Lays Me Down. This was the soundtrack to a lot of my teenage heartbreak. I hope your blushing. I'm blushing. I wish I still dealt with "teenage heartbreak". That was a lot cleaner, a lot naive-er, a lot innocent-er (my high school English teacher's ear is burning, somewhere in California, by my blatant miss use of grammar…sorry Mrs. Dunlap). 

I stood, shoved up against a couple thousand people- a couple thousand hot, sweaty bodies. It was two in-the-afternoon, give or take, and I was in the beating, summer sun. I was in the middle of the desert- in California, at fifteen, with my appropriately named friend, Noah. Coachella Music Festival drew me in to see the pinnacle of my now, formative mind, Noah and The Whale, play their set. A band, who then, had a debut album, solely to perform. Uh. A debut album was all they needed.

My friend Noah stood next to me, confused on what the fuss was about…I can't really remember, but I'm pretty sure he might still be confused on what the fuss is still about; but, I will give Noah this, only a real friend would of waited an hour in the blistering heat, with me, post performance, so I could "meet the band"…aka get a picture with them. Thank you Noah (Barker). 

The band took the stage, clad in cowboy-inspired garb, and had me melting by hello. Front man Charlie Fink was the defining "wet dream" to my "teenage fantasy". I was a little caught up in this fantasy, to of been told, by the band, afterwards, that Charlie was in fact, sick, and their performance was less-than up to the group's standards. Whoops, I was too enraptured by British beauty and British grace, to of really known the difference. I had an appreciation for their music. I mouthed the words to each and every song, but my ear's were tuned to the message, and I functioned on an admittedly deeper level then. Or not so deep, depending on who your talking to. 

So, then came Noah and The Whale's The First Days of Spring, a film and record, that brings back memories of myself (a then, freshmen in college, in Boston) and my former boyfriend, kicking back cheap beer and smoking even cheaper pot, in the basement of said former boyfriend's house, out in the middle of Western Mass. It was almost habitual or ritual during that Winter's (2011) record-breaking snowfall, to light up a joint and marvel in Noah's sophomore album. 

It's a record that, like the first, spoke to me. It still speaks to me. 

Unfortunately, their third album did not. Neither did their fourth, so much. 

But hey, you win some, you lose some. 

Their performance last night; however, made up for lost time, and shitty records,  and as I stood in The House of Blues, in Boston, far from my first home, and my first steps into independence, I shouted, confidently, back, to the band, the words to, Two Atoms in a Molecule. It was a song, the rest of the audience seemed paralyzed in unfamiliarity by. 

That's when I realized, I was entering long-time fan territory. I felt suddenly lonely, as I realized, no one in here, had anything CLOSE to the attachment, that I did, for a band that played a huge role, in my past. Maybe I'm generalizing. But although the performance was brilliant, I now know why, the crowd was not rejoicing, was not reveling- they didn't get it. They weren't in high school, be it, middle school when they started out with Noah and The Whale. They hadn't opened up their mind. They didn't feel innocence from their first two records. They were their for the indie-pop, bubblegum songs that echoed their third album's namesake.

Maybe it's just about the music, and not the memories. For, the music was fantastic. But, as the lights came up, and I trudged out of the sea of people, into the street, and home, to bed, I felt a little sad, that the best times, were in the past, and that everything else would just be surface, just like the night's audience, and therefore just not nostalgic or rather, all embodying. 

Or maybe, it's just my "new" naiveté.

"Hold my hand, as I'm lowered," 

-Madi

VVVVVVVV House of Blues Last night (Monday October, 21st 2013)

Good to See You

~ Neil Young

I've been listening to a lot of Neil Young, recently. To be honest, I get the feeling everyone is. I mean, everyone has been. I'm just a little late on the Neil Young train, my parents first boarded…and so did yours. Sure, I'm a sucker for Harvest Moon, but I found the rest of Young's "surface hit"  discography, brooding, poetic, but brooding. 

My boyfriend introduced me to Silver and Gold. I've done extensive research since, and well, Neil Young, "Good to See You". 

"It's better than silver and gold…"

The Golden Age

~ Beck

I feel like, well, okay, actually, I know…every time I post on here, it's been a long time since the previous (time I posted on here). As if I didn't feel guilty enough, I knew, it was a sign, when perched upon my new, and improved laptop, in the corner window of Starbucks, a man from the archives of The 'stache, banged on the glass before me, eager to hear what I was writing. I was embarrassed to admit, I had no idea, quite yet. I'm trying to "rediscover" so to speak, my voice. How does one do such a thing? I used to be, self-proclaimed (keep in mind), an absolute genius. Something happened though. I don't know what, perhaps my confidence. Perhaps, even, the man in question, Nigel. So, now, I stand, to get my groove back. Kind of like, Stella, or Star Jones, that enormously large black chick, did so long ago: Less, a turns out gay, lover. 

It's not that I've lost a passion for music, nor a new absence acquired in the appreciation of sound, but that life has taken me on an interesting road, and now, I find myself, back, almost exactly where I started. Keep in mind, I have a list, of epic concert-like experiences, and rockstar-esque run-ins from my "sabbatical", that I'm now, dying to fill you all in on.  

This time, however, I come better equipped than ever. Call it convenient, fitting, or even ironic; however, I've been on one of my many Beck kicks, and I give you without further ado, The Golden Age, off of "Dutch-boy Paint's" flawless contribution to humanity, Sea Change. For, it's time, I feel as though, I might be approaching such an era, in my own life, and it's probably about time, that you did too. 

"Put your hands on the wheel

Let the golden age begin…"

I'll Take You There

- The Staple Singers

LSD is good for two things:

A. enriching and expanding your drawing 

B. carrying out a sick, twisted, and undoubtedly sinful affair with The Staple Singers and Dusty Springfield

~ It should be noted, that both of the above mentioned recording artists/groups...are the pinnacle of what's right, in the world- I'm telling you, candidly, do not turn your back on them. 

Spooky...

- M

Maps 

~ Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Okay, it's July fourth, and I know...it's been a long time (since you've heard from me). Fear not, I have been prolific, nonetheless. By prolific, I mean, even though, I've been innactive to interweb, but in excess, still practicing the three major (and only) principles that rule Madiland and her Musicstache. I've been , prolific in my writing, worshipping (all things music), and fantasizing (about cute boys with facial hair), in lame men's terms. So, keep reading, for there's much to come, and more in store, for this modest, simpleton web url, pinky promise. With this said, tonight, I'm writing in the afterglow of surprisingly impressive fireworks via surprisingly impressive (Jewish) boy in a surprisingly impressive part of Massachusetts...surprisingly not in the city of Boston- but in surprisingly impressive suburb (I never thought I'd hear myself say that). Of course, this was all a surprisingly impressive group of factors, that led me to seek the warm, cozy, and thus ever so nostalgia-inducing record of a lifetime as the means in which I process all these, finally, great feelings. Fever To Tell, the debut record from  Yeah Yeah Yeahs (circa 2003) was defining for the 5th grade (give or take) version of yours truly- it made me believe, that Karen O was current, and just as cool as Gwen and Debbie...her contemporaries. It was the gateway drug to more modern punk, from my own generations. It was the pinnacle of a light, I saw, for myself, at the end of a dark tunnel...inevetibly to come. I hope that was middle-school girl angsty enough for you, because it definetelt painted the picture well on my end (lolz). Anyways, perspective boys, big night outs, and a steady, promising, and forward-moving streak, in my current dabblings, feel a lot like, the first time I saw YYY's front lady, singing, sopping wet, in an empty auditorium, Maps (aka the music video for said track). Both of these vintage and current events felt and tonight, feel, a lot like the potential for "home". I like it. I like Maps. I like you.

So, revel in my thirteen-year-old tendencies....because, I'm almost twenty one, and, I'm a little less scared, this way: the soundtrack to the beginning of the beginning, in the world of ehm-dog, silver fox, Madi, jew bagel, Madison sil**** always within an arms reach, appropriately, as well, 

Your proud patriot, 

More Than This 

~ Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music

I went into Allston's favorite record store, In Your Ear, in search of...something along the lines of "New Order"-ish. I came out, however, with something, arguably, just as good: Roxy Music's Avalon record, for...get this...three bucks.

I also got my new friend's behind the counter, to play it for me, before I even walked out of the store. 

So...heres to new records, sweet deals, and analog love~

The 'Stache hearts Roxy Music, more than this (blog could love sexy men in mustaches)!