March 27, 2004

Phono! Mono!

Dear Baby Jesus and/or God,
I wanted to write and thank you personally for making TV On The Radio come true. I know you have heard all my pleading foxhole prayers since 9th grade for such a band, and I understand that despite you being divine and capable of all things, that crafting a band that can make all the bullshit invisible, and only love and a sweet hum exist, radiating and billowing like a tie-dyed sheet drying on a clothes line -- I know that shit takes some power. I know it's not like manna, or making virgins magickly pregnant, it's a real task. Thats much is clear.

Tonight, at the Empty Bottle, I loved them because while they were extraterestrially good -- like it was impossible to wrap my mini-noggin around how they are the sound of all that is visceral, all that is deep within, that pinprick on the inside that you only get for a minute here and there, like in "River Deep, Mountain High" or when Joe Strummer sings "It ain't Coca-Cola/It's Rice" on "Straight to Hell" or when Bill Withers says "I know" nine times in "Ain't no Sunshine" -- when whatever divides us cracks and folds and all there is is is true soul shining witness on the chiaroscuro of our wrecked and mournful human hearts. It extends something winning and hopeful within, and clapping at the end of the song feels like a rip, when what your really want to do is take them to the river and wash their feet, cook them adventurous meals and have 6 hour conversations about people you loved and people you lost and people you used to be, while chainsmoking on the porch til 4 am. I mean, really, where does clapping come in? -- it's wholly inapprops, sullying jargon. To clap is to keep us bayed as audience, thats to the band are "performers" when it's just fact that they are mediums. They are the instruments, golden notes strumming from their beating breasts, some Taoist-deepness about a stream in spring. There is no way to not see that possession -- a defiant, rich luminessence in thier timbre and their beats, their songs are the incandescent harbour lights, scanning the coast for us out at sea, yelling "Find me. Find me."

Posted by Jessica at March 27, 2004 03:04 AM | TrackBack
Comments

Amen.

Posted by: sleepnotwork at March 30, 2004 08:41 PM
Post a comment









Remember personal info?