BABE

BABE

09 December 2011

The Dying Breed That Is Tangible Music: Record Store Day 2009


Author's note: This piece was written for the 2nd annual National Record Store Day in 2009. It's still as relevant as ever.

There isn’t enough nitrous oxide in Stearns County to make getting off this twelve-hundred dollar sheepskin rug worth it, I thought. After the hard stuff wore off, a giant sparkly unicorn balloon full of laughing gas at sunrise seemed like the only normal thing to do.

“How many cartridges do you think it would take to fill up a unicorn balloon?” Joe asked the sex store attendant who was packing up two cases of nitrous cartridges for us. He was in his twenties and had been working the overnight shift.

“Uh…what do you mean?” he responded.

“You know, a silver unicorn-shaped balloon you’d give to an eleven-year-old girl for her birthday…” Joe attempted to explain, the vessels in his eyes looking like they were about to spray blood all over the glass display case housing hundred dollar Blue-Ray pornos.
                
This wasn’t the time or place to mention the words “eleven-year-old girl”, I thought.
                
“Umm, three?” the poor sap guessed. He was wrong; it took seven.
                
That was, of course, before my lips turned a permanent shade of blue and my brain was muddled into a thoughtless paste of exhaustion. It was eleven in the morning now, and sixteen consecutive hours of reckless drug use was beginning to take its toll. I now regretted the nitrous, and so did Joe. I’m sure he was also regretting the agreement to travel to the Electric Fetus for the second annual National Record Store Day—an event created to shoot business and traffic into the vein of a dying industry.
                
We walked about twelve blocks through St. Cloud’s central nerve, surprised by the hustle and bustle of a Saturday just before noon. Public daylight was somewhat of a mystery to us on weekend mornings. Sidewalks were covered in napkins and scattered decks of playing cards and all sorts of random, drunken filth.
                
Our nerves were shot and social interactions were something to avoid at all costs. The public scene didn’t want to deal with us—or rather, didn’t know how to—when suddenly, a voice shouted, “Did you guys make this mess last night?”
                
A woman was leaning out a glass door of a downtown business, staring at us like she had been waiting all morning. I felt guilty, but I know I didn’t make the mess—we were only downtown for about twenty minutes the night before, and that was for the drugs.

I dug into my pocket and felt a thin sheet of plastic. Pulling it out, I saw it was the ace of spades, another curious mystery from the night before. It was on the ground, scattered throughout the sidewalks among fifty-one of its near-identical siblings. So, if anything, I was only guilty of cleaning the mess from last night.

“No ma’am, this couldn’t have been us,” I said, “we stayed home last night.”

“It must have been those dirty drunks,” Joe added.

“Isn’t this the only place to have fun though?” the woman asked. I couldn’t tell if she meant it rhetorically.

“Apparently not,” I said, “turns out you can still have fun at home.” Indeed you can.

We continued on, only a block away from the Fetus. I had no idea what to expect—whether the place would be crawling with bearded stoners and unaffected hipsters not-so-violently shoving their way to the front of the store to be the first to buy the rare, live Pavement vinyl from Germany—or if we’d be the only ones in the place.

We finished our cigarettes and stepped inside, trying our hardest to walk and look like decent, law-abiding citizens. The smell of incense through the northwest door was suffocating. I removed my sunglasses for a brief second before I saw my reflection in display case housing pipes, causing me to finally realize sleepless nights of steady drinking and drug use made me look like a zombie. The orange lenses on my BluBlockers gave me a false sense of security, knowing full-well that I looked equally as ridiculous wearing sunglasses indoors—but at least the normal people couldn’t see my eyes, my undoing.

As it turned out, the Fetus was no busier than usual. Five or six shoppers browsed the “everything-made-of-hemp” clothes section while some punk gazed longingly at the obnoxious bong he and his roommates have been pooling their pizza delivery money towards for weeks. There was only one shopper in the actual music side of the store—an effeminate hipster, complete with too-tight jeans and a denim jacket from hell, wearing a striped scarf and a beret. Yes, an actual fucking beret. He was in the corner, obviously looking at jazz on vinyl

We were all a collective representation of the record store customer base—music junkies, regular junkies, and twenty-somethings looking for strange kicks on Friday nights with their friends. And the record store itself represented its place in modern times: barren and desolate, barely kept alive by the remaining handful of people who shop there, even on its rally day. We were it…we were Record Store Day. But at least we all knew where to find one another.

In the past five years, over a 1,000 local record stores have shut down throughout the nation, sent to the glue factory by online retailers like Amazon and iTunes, leaving only two-thirds of the hometown shops standing. People don’t give a shit about CDs or vinyl anymore (sans hipsters and collectors). Why hold something real that requires moving and talking and interacting, when you can use your computer to magically make The Smiths appear on a little computer box that fits in your pocket?

But who am I to judge? I’m just as guilty as the rest of them, hanging stores like this by their feet and bleeding them dry. It was only hours before that we were listening to The Postal Service’s Give Up in its entirety a half dozen times in the dark. It came from the little black digital music box in my pocket, too. The only difference is that I bought the actual CD from a real person in a record store. Or was it Target? Like I said, I’m in no way part of the solution.

Why was it like this though? Why was there only one person looking at actual music on this supposedly popularized national celebration in the only local record store in a seventy-mile radius? And why the fuck did I get off that plush, white sheepskin rug for this?

There were no motives, no incentives, for any of it. Not for a customer base as small as the indie record store’s. To be honest, I’m surprised this place has been able to stay afloat in this awful city for this long. iPod-toting, iTunes-downloading rubes have been destroying this town’s, and every other town in America’s sense of community to the ground. So what was supposed to bring people in today—free popcorn and lemonade?

Other stores nationwide had incentive, probably because those cities have the customer base to supply incentive. In-store appearances from Ani DiFranco and Franz Ferdinand popped up in bigger cities while The Boss and Elvis Costello, among a whole handful of others released limited-edition vinyls that’ll probably be pirated online by Monday. The Electric Fetus in Minneapolis had local band, The Bad Plus, perform and ex-Soundgarden frontman, Chris Cornell, for a meet and greet.

But there was nothing real to offer in St. Cloud’s store. Nothing really worth a trip into mid-afternoon sobriety.

“It’s actually been pretty busy in here so far,” Dan, the music aficionado behind the counter told me.

Busy? I thought. I knew him and he knew me, and I don’t know who he thought he was trying to fool. He’s soft-spoken and excited about the day, I can tell—a passionate lover of music. If he weren’t working today, he’d be on the other side of the cash register. That, or probably getting drunk.

“Is it supposed to get busier?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, it should be. We’re having some giveaways later and we have a couple of rare albums on vinyl,” he said.

“Like the live Pavement album?” I said, glancing at the display wall next to the delicate, beret-wearing hipster.

“Yeah, it’s from Germany in 1988.” Our conversation stalled. We stood in silence for what felt like thirty seconds, looking at the shelves as if they would talk. Was our level of dumbness that noticeable and painful to deal with, or was there really that little the store had to offer?

They also supposedly had free food and drink, something our bodies were desperate for, but it was nowhere in sight. Joe and I didn’t stick around to find out if they were handing out green brownies or electric Kool-Aid later on though—the lull of emptiness and overpowering weight of gravity was killing us. We were struggling just like the record industry.

“Owning a record store is like cornering the market on slide rulers,” Joe said walking back down the street.

As much as I hate to admit it, the bastard was right. Trying to keep your head above water in a business so outdated and under-appreciated was a lost cause. We can’t do anything without a computer in front of us now—we don’t need actual, tangible things to satisfy our needs anymore. We don’t talk to people with our real voices anymore, we don’t go to stores to buy things and we don’t take the time to notice anything. There’re computer programs and the Internet for all of those things now. If you want a book or a poster, you buy it on Amazon and read it on your godforsaken Kindle or iPad; your music is from iTunes or pirated as a torrent; you can even go grocery shopping online. And fuck that. Honestly, fuck that. Even talking to your own friends seems to be a hassle in real-life today; that’s what Facebook is for.

And what about album artwork? Do we really not care about this integral part of the music: the cover? There’s something about buying an album and being able to actually hold it in your hands and even display it if you want. Would you buy a Monet or a Picasso that you could only look at on your computer monitor? Absolutely not. You’d have to be a Scientologist to think that irrationally. Think about the classic album covers throughout history: The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan cover of Dylan and his then-girlfriend arm in arm, walking down a street in Greenwich Village; The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Abbey Road covers are as much modern art as the music itself; if someone had never heard Nirvana, they’d still be able to tell you there’s a naked baby’s dick on the cover of Nevermind. Why would we want to miss out on these things? Why just disregard them as if they held no aesthetic value?

We were running out of steam, so we sucked down another cigarette and walked a few blocks to The White Horse for lunch and a beer; one of the few things you can still do without a computer screen in front of you. Everything was starting to wear off and we felt awful. The beer provided only mild satisfaction—from its wetness—since the alcohol in it no longer served any purpose. We forcibly choked down our sandwiches and walked back to our friends’ house, where we committed all sorts of moral wrongs over the past fifteen hours. Joe’s girlfriend laid uncomfortably awaiting our return in the darkness.

There was a sense of comfort and safety in that dim living room. Good music was still coming out of the speakers, as it was before we left for the Fetus. It was that music that served as the generator for our sleepless endeavor the night before. That, illegal medicine, friends, and a rug. Hours ago, that glorious sheep rug was occupied by the three of us, spacing out to the sounds of expanding balloons and then, with a couple deep breaths, thirty seconds or so of mental bliss—over and over again—to the beats of LCD Soundsystem’s 45:33.

I remember buying the album two winters ago, knowing basically nothing about the band. I needed something new to listen to, something fresh. So I went to the Fetus and found the black-covered compact disc case. Then at the counter, I ended up talking to Andy, the Electric Fetus’ in-store, all-knowing music guru about the direction Of Montreal’s sound has gone over the past decade for a solid half hour. He’s one of the reasons I like getting off my ass, away from a computer and going to my local record store—his never-evolved high school nerd frame, little wire-rimmed glasses and breathtaking mullet—asking him about any artist in the store, and getting some sort of meaningful and honest interaction with a Real Person. He knows me by name, and says it when I leave the store—and that can mean more to me than the music itself. My Sony Vaio doesn’t have that effect on me.

“In some ways, the retail experience is almost as important as the music,” John ‘Cougar’ Mellencamp said about Record Store Day. He’s right: it is. The journey is the destination.

I can always remember going to record stores—talking to people, holding real things and having something to show for my money. And maybe that’s why we need record stores, maybe that’s why we need to go do things. I don’t remember anything about the last time I downloaded music from the Internet. I didn’t see anyone or talk to anybody. I didn’t have an Experience. I didn’t move.

I have experiences I remember when I go to record stores. I once saw Stephen Malkmus come out of the back room of the Electric Fetus in Minneapolis, reeking of grass—before playing a short set in front of a packed record store. And today, I saw nobody in my record store on Record Store Day, but at least I’ll remember being there. At least I did something.

It isn’t the record store’s fault for struggling. It’s our fault for staying inside, shielded by a keyboard and a backlit screen—shielded from what we’ve all become too busy for: the people and community around us. We’ve become selfish whore robots, always connected to the machine—whether it’s hanging out of our ear or on our laps—and I think the only ones left who really care are the people who still go to record stores.

11 May 2011

From the Archives...Album Reviews: of Montreal - "Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?"

Psychadelic indie-poppers, of Montreal, seemingly change their sound with every album they've released since 1997's lo-fi, acoustic love song-filled debut, Cherry Peel, and have continued to great extremes with their new, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?

The electronic, disco-glam sound of Hissing Fauna was written, produced, performed and recorded almost entirely by the band's founder, frontman and brainchild, Kevin Barnes, with a sprinkle of glittery help from family and friends.

With the overwhelming presence of synthesizers, drum samples and seemingly endless vocal harmonies of the band's electro-pop sound, the album can sound like an overcooked '80s glamfest at first listen.

But with a good set of headphones or some very large speakers, the disco-fest turns into something completely different: a strange, psychadelic concept album about sex, fashion and depression.

Barnes has always been known for his quirky imagination and tales about weird, fantasy characters and events like those featured in the band's 1998 experimental storybook record, The Gay Parade, with songs about characters like Jacques Lamure, Nickee Coco and the Invisible Tree, and the Fun-Loving Nun.

The track titles for Hissing Fauna trend on this theme, but with a twist, like "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse" and "Faberge Falls for Shuggie". But aside from whatever was going on in Barnes' tortured head when he came up with the song titles, the lyrical content is personal and major shift from previous of Montreal albums that dealt with imagined conversations, fictional characters, ironic takes on loneliness and death, and corny love songs.

Barnes said Hissing Fauna tells the story of his transformation from Kevin Barnes -- taking place during the near-12 minute epic, "The Past is a Grotesque Animal" -- into his new alter-ego: the glitter-wearing, spandex-donning, black glam god, Georgie Fruit.

The first half of the album -- the Barnes half -- features the personal, emotional side of Barnes' struggle for himself, seen in "A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger," dealing with his seclusion and depression: "I spent the winter on the verge of a total breakdown while living in Norway/I felt the darkness of the black metal bands/But being such a fawn of a man I didn't burn down any old churches/Just slept way too much, just slept."

In "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse" Barnes asks his wife for help while escaping the grasp of his clinical depression: "Nina Twin is trying to help and I really hope that she suceeds/Though I picked the thorny path myself I'm afraid, afraid of where it leads/Chemicals don't strangle my pen/Chemicals don't make me sick again."

The album's opening track and most radio-friendly tune "Suffer for Fasion" is a catchy, poppy little tune, chalk-full of keyboards and Barnes' multiple harmonies that have given of Montreal its distinguished sound over recent years. Lyrically, Barnes is commenting on how overly concerned we are about fashion, about how, when we're all running frantically through the streets at the end of the world, we'll still be "checking our compact mirrors to make sure our lipstick isn't smeared and our hair is right."

After Barnes' glamformation at the album's purported "turning point", the remaining five songs start to sound less like of Montreal and a little more like a juiced-up version of Prince.

The following track, where Barnes finishes the rest of the album out as Georgie Fruit, "Bunny Ain't No Kind of Rider" is a lyrical shift from personal struggle to all things flamboyantly homoerotic -- art, drugs, makeup, fashion and sex -- seen in the first verse: "Saw her at Go kissing girls/What a shock I said you must be an artist/She muttered her reply/I was judging her friend as the DJ played a dead jam/No one wants to dance/They're outside smoking cigarettes."

Even Barnes' new live performance attitude is on the album -- wearing glitter and makeup, cross-dressing onstage -- seen in "Faberge Falls for Shuggie": "Those with the golden X have tried to tell me/That the sex in my walk was cotton soft but that's never, never, never."

"Labrynthian Pomp" is an instant attention-grabber dripping with Purple Rain. From Barnes' well-replicated Prince falsetto heard throughout the verses, right up until the song takes acid and becomes overwhelmingly psychadelic and eerie until it ends.

From start to finish, Hissing Fauna is drenched in sexuality, but a type of sexuality that has no gender and certainly no boundries. Barnes' unstable emotional cocoon opens up to a sex-crazed, cross-dressing, sparkly butterfly, and at no point is there a definition of how or why. It's as if it was meant to be.

But as odd and scary, or happy and gay of Montreal can sound, Kevin Barnes' band has managed to stay unpredictable and stay creative for 10 years.

And whether Barnes is himself or a split-personality fashionista, he and the rest of the Athens, Ga., group continue to evolve their style just enough to keep sounding new.

From University Chronicle, 1/25/07

28 April 2010

Terrorists 1 - America 0



The voice of reason—the single most significant purveyor of social clarity and political sanity—were basically told to shut the hell up last week and it really rubs me the wrong way. The show that makes you stop, scratch your head and say, “You know, they're right. We're really handling things the wrong way,” was censored in the worst way last Wednesday night.

South Park, possibly the best TV show ever conceived by humans, was given the proverbial shaft last week when it attempted to depict animated images of some supposed prophet who probably didn't even exist from a religion that literally throws rocks at women for not being virgins when they wed. That's right, after the long-awaited, dramatic 200th episode of the animated Comedy Central classic that rehashed a multitude of jokes, appearances, characters, innuendos and plots from the previous 199 chapters, the network decided to play it safe. They threw in 'bleeps' and black censor bars on the climactic conclusion to episode “201” whenever Mohammad (actually concealed in a bear mascot costume and later revealed to not even be Mohammad at all but rather Santa Claus) was on-screen or even when his name was mentioned.

This censorship, of course, didn't come from angry parents or the Christian Coalition or the far-right like it has in the past. No, it came from a group of radical Muslims, threatening what else but violence and death to the show's creators, Matt Stone and Trey Parker. The radicals even listed information about where Matt and Trey live on the website, right about where they posted a gruesome photo of murdered Dutch filmmaker Theo Van Gogh. 

There are so many things that make me angry about this entire ordeal, I don't even know how to lay it out. First, the episode's moral message/realization at the end of the episode (which was censored) was all about not giving into fear and intimidation over something so silly as a death threat over a cartoon. Oh, the irony.

And what about the July 4, 2001 episode of South Park titled, “Super Best Friends” which is referenced in the “200”? The season five episode depicted a comical superhero-like group of the world's great religious figures, including: Jesus Christ of Christianity, Moses of Judaism, Joseph Smith of Mormonism, Buddha of Buddhism, Lao Tzu of Taoism, Krishna of Hinduism, Sea Man and—guess who—Mohammad of Islam!

The network had no problem before September 11, 2001 showing a cartoon superhero version of Mohammad, and they had no problem airing reruns on syndicates or streamed versions online. That was, until the death threats came in from a bunch of religious zealot assholes with no sense of humor or even any consideration for the Constitution of the United States of America, the country who so kindly allows their barbaric, 12th century, douchiness to express their First Amendment right of free speech. Here's how John Stewart so eloquently put it the following night:
 

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
South Park Death Threats
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full EpisodesPolitical HumorTea Party

A certain touchiness has been seen in the past, with the late Isaac Hayes quitting the show after the 2006 episode exposed the ridiculousness of Scientology, who had voiced the character “Chef” since the show began in 1997. But this is a new brand of touchiness, the kind that threatens to kill a couple of guys who make a brilliant cartoon; a couple of guys who make jokes about everybody and every religion; a couple of guys who took acid, dressed in women's clothing at the Academy Awards. What fucking era are we living in? Last time I checked, in America you can't threaten to kill someone because they make a cartoon depiction (not even a demeaning one) of a guy with the religious relativity of Jesus.

And now, you can't watch the 201st episode online or even the “Super Best Friends” episode, which was available to stream at South Park Studios up until at least April 20. All because of some whiny crybabies with nothing better to do than threaten violence because they're too big of pussies to actually fight against something legally. But no, this way terrorism wins. Its a big win for fear and intimidation and a hard, ugly loss for free speech, comedy and America as a whole. Good for you South Park, shame on you Comedy Central, and fuck you Revolution Muslim (who made the threats). This just opens the door for more violent threats from dipshits who don't understand comedy or America (we're basically founded on the freedom of expression, speech, religion, etc.). I say this all at the risk of coming off like an intolerant American redneck, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

By the way, the images posted here are of the Prophet Mohammad ala South Park, which I found doing a simple Google search. So if the theme is to persist, I recommend Google and everybody who works for Google to be careful of radical religious cuckoos.

I think all religions are stupid and unnecessary and I don't dislike Islam any more than I dislike Christianity or Judaism. But radical Muslims, you really are a bunch of assholes and I hope the 72 virgins waiting for you in heaven are all fat and ugly. Or big, hairy Jewish-American men. That would really be a kick in the nuts, wouldn't it? Of course heaven isn't real, so they'll be disappointed regardless.

And out of respect for South Park, here he is in all of his cartoon glory...Ladies and gentlemen, the Prophet Mohammad!:


Shocking, I know.

01 April 2010

Need a New Time Machine?


Do you ever wish you could just hop in a time machine and travel “back to the future”? Does that time machine have stainless steel paneling, upward opening gull-wing doors and a flux capacitor that will plunge you into the depths of time when the speedometer reaches 88 mph?

Well, dream on because that's mostly science fiction. In fact, until recently, it was completely science fiction.

The car made famous by Marty McFly and Doc Brown in “Back to the Future” was lost in time since the DeLorean Motor Company folded in 1982. But the forgotten DeLorean DMC-12 has reemerged—in the present.

The 135-hp V6 time machine was only in production from 1981-82, with only around 9,000 cars manufactured out of DMC's factory in Northern Ireland. At a base price of around $25,000 (approximately $55,000 in today's dollars), the DMC-12 was on the steep side for John DeLorean's pride and joy. The cars came in one color: unpainted stainless steel. This little piece of history was short lived and—without the help of Universal Studios—would be forgotten.

That was another period in time, though. In 1997, a private buyer from Texas purchased the company and factory stock with plans to reproduce the lost relic. As of 2008, DMC Houston began selling a limited quantity of freshly manufactured (using 80% original materials) DMC-12's.

The “future” models, or rather the newly built cars of the present, still have the same look and feel of the original (yes, the gull-wing doors are still there) but with a few “futuristic” add-ons. Inside you won't find a flux capacitor, but you can fork over some extra dough to get your DMC-12 modernized with XM satellite radio, GPS, backup camera, heated seats and a built-in iPod interface; a handful of things “Doc” never thought to install when he was cruising into the year 2015.

And don't forget the engine upgrade. The original DMC-12 didn't quite satisfy sports car enthusiasts with it's piddly 135-hp engine (about the same as a new Toyota Corolla), and that was the early '80s. With a $5,750 upgrade package, DMC will replace the original engine with a high performance 197-hp engine. But you might as well call it $6,000 with the 140 mph speedometer option.

The DMC site will let you custom-build your DMC-12 to make it your dream car. My custom DeLorean (5-speed manual transmission with the engine upgrade, speedometer, iPod interface, and a stainless steel “DMC” shift knob) comes out to $63,733 before tax and fees. This leaves you with the ultimate question: is buying a new DMC-12 worth dipping deep into your bank account of the future?

When you break it down and make a few comparisons to other new cars in the same price range, it makes you wonder if you should just wait five years for a hoverboard. Keeping in that $64,000 price range, let's see what our other options are: 


You could buy two brand new 2010 Dodge Challenger R/Ts with 250-hp V6 engines and still have about six grand left over...


Another route would be a 2010 Porsche Cayman S with 265-hp and all the bells and whistles you could imagine (minus that flux capacitor, of course). So before you go buy those Nikes, the denim jacket and the orange vest, think again.

But who's to say you have to buy a (mostly) brand new DMC-12 for Porsche prices when you can buy a refurbished or used model for anywhere between $10,000-30,000? Just don't let a new model run into a past version of itself when traveling back in time, or else...

Okay, now you can go buy your Marty McFly attire.


12 March 2010

R.I.P. Mark Linkous



This past Saturday, the world and the music business lost another gem. Following in close friend Vic Chesnutt's fatal footsteps, brainchild and leader of the band Sparklehorse, Mark Linkous, killed himself in a Knoxville, Tennessee alleyway.

Sparklehorse's music was melancholy and sad, at times honest and delicate, and even loud and cynical. Linkous' voice was soft and gentle, almost a whimper rather than a whisper. Much of his sonic kindness can be attributed to the southern gentleman attitude that comes with growing up in rural Virginia, where he was born and spent most of his life--even recording his first two albums in his small house hidden away in the forest.

Linkous was depressed for the better part of the past two decades, which his music often reflected--either metaphorically or obviously. Yet at first glance, one reading select lyrics might picture Linkous to be the joyous type; filled with love and a passion for all earthly delights. As here, from the song "Don't Take My Sunshine Away":
"Your face is like the sun sinking into the ocean
Your face is like watching flowers growing in fast motion
All your kisses are swallowed, like the morning's hollows
All vines and tree nuts will come unwound
baby you are my sunshine, my sunshine,
please don't take my sunshine away"
Sadly, Linkous' sunshine was taken away...years ago. He suffered a debilitating accident stemming from a drug overdose that left him wheelchair-bound for the following six months in 1996. At the time, Sparklehorse was touring with Radiohead.

It seems like Linkous had a true grasp and understanding of the beauty of nature and the possibilities of kindness and truth in people, but only as a metaphor. Speaking from lyrical interpretation alone, Linkous seemed to have trouble dealing with the fact that nothing lasts forever; beauty fades, the sun sets, and the opposite of light is an endless abyss of black. From "Someday I Will Treat You Good":
"everything that's made is made to decay
well I'm shrinking bones in the sun
won't you tell me why that
the beautiful ones are always crazy"
At times, maybe Linkous saw himself as the ugly stain on a masterpiece landscape. Almost as if the world were perfect except for him. In the song, "It's a Wonderful Life" (an ironic middle-finger to journalists) his careful, precious falsetto claims:
"I'm a bog of poisoned frogs"
And then:
"I'm the dog that ate your birthday cake"
Throughout the near two-decade run of Sparklehorse, you can almost hear Linkous sink further and further into depression. The general tone of his albums speak volumes about his deterioration. The 1995 debut LP, Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot, is lo-fi and angry at times--almost frustrated at the unchangeable--and drenched in loud guitars and distorted vocals. But within all the noise are precious gems of folky, melodic alt gems, like "Hammering the Cramps".

After Sparklehorse's debut and Linkous' momentary death (the 1996 overdose stopped his heart for a few minutes) came 1998's Good Morning Spider. Although Linkous says most of the album was recorded prior to the overdose, one new song was written in honor of the care he received at London's St. Mary's Hospital. "Saint Mary" is an honest plea for his nurses to hurry him back to his woody home in Virginia where he could "taste the clean dirt in his lungs and the moss on [his] back" and all he needs "is water, a gun and rabbits". Tracks like "Sick of Goodbyes" have the warmth and tempo of something upbeat and potentially promosing, but the lyrics remain consistently unable to deal with the tragedy of life:
"the night comes crawling in
on all fours
sucking up my dreams
through the floor"
About the "incident" in which he temporarily died, Linkous said, "It scared the hell out of me at the time. When you're in a really desperate situation and you really think you're going to die, it makes you realize how quickly things can be over."

Countless lyrics and quotes here and there make his suicide seem like some sort of expected event, as if it were just a matter of when and where. But in recent years, one could look at his musical output and hope for a happier ending.

In 2001, Linkous decided he was looking for artistic growth, so instead of handling all of the production and instrumentation he'd done on the first two records, he decided to open up his doors and get help from a slew of talents, including Flaming Lips production guru David Fridmann, longtime idol Tom Waits, and friends PJ Harvey, Nina Persson and the late Vic Chesnutt. The result was the beautiful and tragically somber It's A Wonderful Life.

But of course, the tone of depression prevailed. In the ominous "Eyepennies", it's clear that Linkous wasn't really thinking of life as something he enjoyed. His lyrics would get darker and more dismal. From "Eyepennies":
"Blood suckers hide beneath my bed
And black fumes of skin so gently bled
I slept with a cat on my breast
Slowing my heart stealing my breath"
After It's A Wonderful Life, Linkous recorded songs for the next Sparklehorse album, but the depression overwhelmed him. The end result was a mix of previously released, re-recorded and a few new tracks, ushered in with the help of producer genius Danger Mouse. The bipolar 2006 release Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain would be the last Sparklehorse record. Although a well-produced, technically different album, it was obvious that Linkous was losing his will. About the album, he said:
"Well, I'd quit working for a while and it started to get really difficult to live and pay the rent. So it was really getting down to the wire where I had to turn a record in. I had some stuff written that I didn't put on the last album, because they were just really pop songs. They felt like anachronisms on the last record. So I saved all these little pop songs."
The best thing to come out of the 2006 album was the collaboration with Danger Mouse that led to the yet-to-be-officially released Dark Night of the Soul project that brought together former contributers like Vic Chesnutt and Nina Persson, and other big names like James Mercer of The Shins, Frank Black/Black Francis of the Pixies, Iggy Pop, Julian Casablancas of The Strokes and The Flaming Lips, among others. The album along with a 200-page photo book by David Lynch is expected to be released sometime this year after a legal battle with Danger Mouse's label, EMI.

Then on March 6, for whatever reason, Mark Linkous went into an alleyway near a friend's house in Knoxville, Tennessee with a rifle, sat down, and shot himself in the heart, ending his painful, tragic life. To most it wasn't any big surprise, but that didn't make it hurt any less. A southern gentleman with a soft voice and an honest heart who simply couldn't cope with the how and why of life and death.

Listening to Sparklehorse, I've always had the mental image of driving in a car late at night in the rain on a dark, wooded road. Linkous' quiet whisper almost beckons you into the darkness--somewhere where the rising sun and time can't do you harm.

For you, Mr. Linkous, from your own tongue:
"Its time for you to rise
And evaporate in the sun
Sometimes it can weigh
a ton"