I remember driving on one misty day in central Minnesota. The hills were neatly plowed like some giant zen garden and the clouds meandered through them, slow and steady. I’m listening to Low’s 2001 album “Things We Lost in the Fire”. The drive is long and uninterrupted. There is no traffic. It is Sunday afternoon. The album plays out and I am pulled deeper and deeper in with each track. I’m in another world.
Music can so perfectly outline a moment.
Happy 20th birthday to one of my very favorite albums: Thing’s We Lost in the Fire
To celebrate, I’ve recorded a cover of the album’s closing track “In Metal”.
Lyrics:
Filling holes with tiny sounds Shiny from the inside out Picture of you where it began In metal In metal
Partly hate to see you grow And just like your baby shoes Wish I could keep your tiny body In metal In metal In metal
There is an irony to creation. I have found that the harder I work on something, the less ownership I have over it. The more I put into it, the less it is mine. So it is only with great humility that I can present you with our latest album, Another Year.
This music is lush, organic, optimistic, and unlike anything we’ve done before. It was made collaboratively, built around each individual’s unique sensibilities and bound together by our mutual respect. I love this album and the people who made it. This year has certainly taught me that the best thing about making art is that it’s a good excuse for friends to get together.
We had planned for a Fall release, and are sticking to that in the sense that physical copies are now available, but we are saving the digital/streaming release for when we can safely put on a live release show. You can sample the first third of the album below:
1) Sand I / 2) Torn / 3) Pictures / 4) Ventriloquist
CD’s are pay what you want (+ $3 s/h) from now through the end of October. They include a CD, digipak, mp3s, and 9 individual lyric postcards. We accept Paypal or Venmo. Order by emailing us at david.lindstrom.music@gmail.com
There may also be a buried treasure.
Full Tracklist:
1) Sand I 2) Torn / 3) Pictures / 4) Ventriloquist 5) Sand II 6) Growing / 7) Scrimshaw / 8) Ash 9) Sand III 10) Release / 11) Crochet / 12) Stories 13) Sand IV
Credits:
Created by David Lindstrom: Josh Pfohl: Bass // Nina Nelson: Mallet Percussion, Vocals // Matt Nelson: Guitars, Oud, Vocals, Sand, Orchestrations, Visuals // Devin Tomczik: Drums, Percussion
Additional performances: Matt Dehnbostel: Violin, Viola // Sean Jacobson: Trumpet, Trombone
Recorded and Mixed by Matt Nelson at Greenspeak Studio. Additional Field Recordings captured onsite across Minnesota and Iceland. Mastered by Greg Reierson at Rareform Mastering
Dedicated to our parents and grandparents, children and grandchildren.
Snowflakes are cool. I often forget this, but it just takes a good look in between swear fueled shovels of snow to remember that each one is a tiny pointless little masterpiece forged in the chaos of nature by no one for no reason. I don’t know why they look like that or why I would think that that is a cool way to look, but I enjoy the fact that I enjoy them.
People are cool. I often forget this, but it just take a good look in between swear fueled bouts of road rage to remember that each one is a tiny pointless masterpiece that awoke from dust to feel pain, yell at things, and fear its return to dust. I don’t know why they look that way or why I would think that that is a cool way to look, but I enjoy the fact that I enjoy them.
Everything is cursed into perfect balance. Merry Christmas!
Lyrics:
Brother, now father, and father: grandfather And grandfather left years ago Ice clouded grass, waiting winter to pass Time frozen and stilted in growth
Sister, now mother, and mother: grandmother And grandmother knew when to go Rows of streetlights all begin to ignite Weaving shadows long over the road
Then all life stops Feather drop Of tiny flakes In perfect shape
Soft white felt Quick to melt Fleeting Beauty The symmetry of snow
Student, now teacher, and teacher will teach All the students to teach and then know Stalactites of ice draping branches of pine Under glass marble moons hanging low
Tomorrow’s today and today: yesterday And yesterday is so long ago The next year will pass once again in a flash And the infants to grandparents grow
Then all life stops Feather drop Of tiny flakes In perfect shape
As they fell, Emanuel! A god of grace I saw its face My grandma died My niece arrived Fleeting Beauty The symmetry of snow
This is a piece that I wrote in the spirit of Thanksgiving and fast cars. It was written freely without an agenda or even idea to convey, so it’s full of non-sequiturs. Still, the mind can’t really do “randomness” so the results are, at least for me, evocative. I have a lot of tangental thoughts about it that I considered sharing here but I don’t want to pollute any interpretation, so instead here are some sick pictures of fast cars that I drew as a kid.
Fast Driving CarsHELL YEAH! Look at those trucks hitting it head on in a stadium! Looks like one of the cars only has 4 wheels… HUGE MISTAKE! Unless those two can un-pancake their engines, I think there is a pretty clear winner here. WOOOHHHOOOOO!!!!! Look at that puppy PULL! Look at the SUSPENSION, look at the ROLL CAGE WIND-SHEILD, look at the TREAD!! Whoever was driving that dopey little box car should be thankful that this miracle of modern engineering was there to tow it. Dang, that small car appears to be OFF THE GROUND and flying through the air because of the near impossible speeds that this thing can !TUG! at.WHEW!!! I COULD USE ONE OF THOSE RIGHT NOW!!!!! This is a true dream car for any Minnesotan who is about to enter into the snowy winter months. Fricken SKIS on the front!? Looks cold out there, but this snow dog is still RUNNIN HOT!!! LOOKS AT THOSE FUMES! Pretty dope perspective on the chassis of that hunk as well.
Lyrics:
Oh my god this car drives fast Took us to a field of ash Red eyes and feeling faint Lead foot and severed brakes
God, you know the way I pray Never knowing what to say And the way I fold my hands Palming all my contraband
Oh my god this car needs gas An Oil change and renewed tabs Look at all the chipping paint Radiator’s rusted tank
God you know I only pray When I’m desperate and afraid And the way I bow my head Instead of reverence only dread
Somewhere I have made a wrong turn casually How could I have not seen what’s in front of me
Oh my friends I hope you find The life that you had in mind You all are spread too thin No time for maintenance
And if you let me go I’ll consider it an act of hope We all can see the cracks And no one calls each other back
Somewhere I have made a wrong turn casually How could I have not seen what’s in front of me
In cars that drive this fast Everything blurs past At such a break-neck pace We all could use some grace
God you know I never pray But I’m always giving thanks
I’ve played in pit orchestras for a lot of musicals, and my one universal across the board criticism of them is that none are adaptations of H.P. Lovecraft’s stories (There actually is one, but it’s *ugh* a parody).
This week I have decided to be the spooky change that I want to see in the world by writing the opening number to a musical adaptation of Lovecraft’s short story “The Music of Erich Zann”.
The story is about a college student who gets an apartment underneath a viol player who plays weird music every night to appease some horrible power. He gets to know the guy, spooky things happen, the nature of existence is in questioned, and exc. It holds up well, it’s super short, and you can read it here.
It’s a lesser-known work, but Lovecraft claimed that he was the most proud of it. There is something evocative about an artist who creates not to please audiences or gain them fame, but to fend of some kind of darkness. I’m sure Lovecraft, troubled as he was, could relate to that sentiment.
Here is the rough sketch of the opening number of my (soon
to be) hit musical ZANN!
Credits: Me. I unfortunately play all the parts.
Note: The collage student/main character is nameless in the
short story. I named him Edward.
Script:
(Edward walks onstage in front of the curtain)
Edward: I have examined maps of the city with
the greatest care, yet have never again found the Rue d’Auseil. These maps have
not been modern maps alone, for I know that names change. I have, on the
contrary, delved deeply into all the antiquities of the place; and have
personally explored every region, of whatever name, which could possibly answer
to the street I knew as the Rue d’Auseil. But despite all I have done it
remains an humiliating fact that I cannot find the house, the street, or even
the locality, where, during the last months of my impoverished life as a
student of metaphysics at the university, I heard the music of Erich Zann.
(Curtain opens to reveal a tall building. The Landlord stands outside waiting for Edward and Erich Zann stands in the top floor window.)
Landlord: Why
hello there, you must be Edward.
Edward: Uh,
yes. Hello, thank you for meeting me so late into the evening.
Landlord: BAH!
What is evening to those who cannot sleep?!
Erich Zann: High up, cold air from my window. Look at
all the people, never knowing fear.
Edward: This is such an intriguing building.
Landlord: Well, it’s one of a kind!
Erich Zann: Somewhere, underneath this city, an
all-consuming darkness, swallower of time.
Edward: It’s so close to the university.
Landlord: We are practically neighbors!
Erich Zann: I play, accompany in dismay alien bells
ringing, ancient voices singing, rupturing the air.
Edward: Well, this seems perfect, but I’m
afraid I don’t have much of a budget for lodging…
Landlord: Ah, well there is always the 5th
floor…
Edward: Is there some problem with the 5th
floor?
Landlord: Oh absolutely nothing… if you don’t mind
music. There is a musician on the floor above and he practices from 1 to 6…
*ahem* am that is. You can hear him now, listen.
Erich Zann: Nightly, I can feel its presence, fostering
my madness, making me insane.
Edward: What an otherworldly music!
Erich Zann: Lately, it has gotten stronger. I cannot
contain it, worming in by brain!
Landlord: Haha, Quite! He’s a real mad genius that
Erich…
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clock tower: Eins!
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clocktower: Zwei!
Townsfolk: Up the hill on Rue d’Auseil, you hear the
madman’s viol play. So weak and frail, a cosmic pawn, the music of one Erich
Zann.
Erich Zann: High up, cold air from my window. Look at
all the people, they do not know fear.
Edward: I really will not mind the music.
Landlord: Perfect!
Erich Zann: Somewhere, underneath this city, an
all-consuming darkness, harbinger of DEATH!
Landlord: I’ll just need your signature here and
here.
Edward: Very well.
Erich Zann: My eyes dilate in shadow, sawing notes with
my bow quivering in fear.
Edward: I must meet this Erich Zann…
Erich Zann: I can… I cannot continue, every night is
torture, draining me of life.
Edward: His music is so peculiar…
Erich Zann: I pray that some day soon my hearing…
Edward: It sounds like…
Erich and
Edward: Alien bells ringing, ancient
voices singing…
Edward: So pleasant to my…
Erich Zann: Will rupture both my…
Erich and
Edward: Ears.
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clock tower: Drei!
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clocktower: Vier!
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clock tower: Funf!
Townsfolk: ZANN!
Clocktower: Sechs!
YIKES! I know something is good when I oscillate between incredibly proud and cripplingly embarrassed while listening to it. Happy Halloween!
This addition to the graveyard is a (personal) classic and lighthearted instrumental piece from circa 2010, a time when I would spend a lot of time improvising and editing little tunes, usually in one sitting, to practice recording. It is classic to me because of how reminiscent it is of one of my favorite video game compositions of all time:
I don’t remember trying to emulate Stickerbush Symphony but I did play a lot of Donkey Kong so… the hook’s in deep.
In other news, I’m writing a lot of holiday music for the holidays so look forward to that in the coming weeks. Follow this blog if necessary.
I’ve never
been all that interested in writing individual songs. From the moment I picked
up my first recording interface at a garage sale, I was set on recording
albums, something that I could put into my (brother’s) Sony Walkman and listen
to from beginning to end. Long form albums that were composed of continuous and
inseparable tracks. This obsession was taken to an unhealthy extreme on Gilded
Prayer. All the music and lyrics were written at once to reflect and deepen
each other.
Around the
time I was writing it, I was reading more, and enjoying reading more, than I
ever had. I was jealous of the rich worlds and complex themes that authors
could explore over a thousand pages. I felt that like writing a comparable work
in a song’s relatively simple format was like trying to construct the Eiffel
Tower with an Erector Set. My plan ended up being to use Gilded Prayer’s
limited lyrical text to generate nearly unlimited subtext.
If you
haven’t seen the physical CD for the album it looks like this:
Around the
outermost edges are the track numbers; the inner more lines are minutes markers,
and the mess of lines inside the circle are each lyrical connection on the
album, color coded to match the corresponding word in the lyric book.
Words don’t have fixed meanings. This is why most online content monitoring still has to be done by humans, words need to be interpreted based on their context. So I tried to construct a deeper narrative that would unfold as certain words’ meanings were developed through different contexts. The results of this you can judge for yourself. Personally, I can say that I still pull different meanings out of the album every time I listen to it. It has been a useful vehicle for me to probe my subconscious, however that isn’t really what most people are looking for when they listen to music.
Most of what I create never sees the light of day. I feel a sense of urgency when I’m making something, but that energy never maintains itself when it is time to show it off. Psychology aside, this leaves me with a not unsubstantial back catalogue of unreleased material, material that I have decided to place here in “The Graveyard.” I’m calling it “The Graveyard” because everything that I post in this category will be material that I have no plans for. Dead material if you will. This is where I bury it.
Fittingly, this first piece is a song I wrote after putting my family’s dog Einstein down a little over a week ago. Pet deaths suck because you almost feel guilty for feeling any remotely powerful sense of grief over them. It is a pretty common occurrence that shouldn’t cork up your life all that much, but like any of the litany of impossibly sad things in life, it can tear you up if you open yourself to it. But opening myself up to these kinds of things is what I consider to be the blue-collar, hard work responsibility of my artistry, no matter how melodramatic it might seem. Happiness sings its own song but sadness needs to be transformed into one. In this case that song is called:
Pentobarbital
Lyrics:
The paling leaves On the way to Long Prairie County 75 Autumn resting in your eyes I still see you taking laps Begging for my table scraps Those seizures must keep you awake Good boy sure knows how to shake
But you don’t care at all Pentobarbital When you start to fall Pentobarbital
Remember I picked you out The only one that wasn’t loud And when we got you home You wouldn’t leave me alone And then you slept in my bed Quivering, your nervous head September now, I watch you fade Stupid dog, I thought I taught you how to stay
But you don’t care at all Pentobarbital When you start to fall Pentobarbital You don’t care at all Pentobarbital When you start to fall Pentobarbital
Nothing can be fought You’re dizzy in the parking lot And these lungs aren’t mine They’re pumping fast and out of time Today my niece turns one I’m sure the party will be fun Neon pink into your leg Don’t worry Einstein, no one’s going to make you beg
Don’t take much at all Pentobarbital My God, are we so small? Pentobarbital
Writing can be a mixed bag. Sometimes words come out like you’re exhaling and other times they need to be exhumed painfully from parts of your self that are better off untouched. The former is the case for our album currently in production: relatively short writing periods, small edits, feelings of gratitude and connection. It’s great! Feels like a gift, exc and so on. And I can accept this because the last album, Gilded Prayer, was quite a helping of the later. It is a huge postmusical interwoven beast that is one step beyond even my own comprehension. So, before I spoil this blog with unmerited positivity about the self-actualizing process of creating this new album, it’s important to walk through of the self-destructive process of creating the last one.
At the end of 2014, I stumbled out of graduation summa cum laude with a degree in music composition and I was, simply put, burnt out baby. Worse than that was that I had lost a spark. The internal energy that once defined my future, directed my present, and contextualized my past was more or less gone. The avant-garde academic music I wrote felt distant and aloof, and the pop music I wrote felt infantile and self-indulgent. Around that time, I released an album, did nothing with it, and pretty much told no one.
The tragic thing about studying a subject seriously is that it changes your relation to it. All the secrets are unearthed, all the mysteries are explained, and that can spoil some of the fun. I realized around this time that I had no interest in listening to music and little interest in playing it. My rigorous study had somehow compressed my passion into a more definable and ridged skill. It was something I could do like math equations or argumentative writing. A competency that I could put on a resume. I guess everything has a cost.
Conversely, while my ability to appreciate music was diminished, I found that my attraction to field recordings and other incidental/ unintentional sounds greatly increased. I would listen to traffic, wind, and idle chatter with great attention. My new love was the symphonic byproduct of the indifferent mechanisms of existence. I would spend evenings browsing recordings of birds and waterfalls (many of which can be heard in Gilded Prayer).
So I wrote the music for Gilded Prayer with a kind of indignation towards it. I’d write a song and then pick at its seams, fray out all the edges, and reduce it to a tangled weave of musical filament. I’d then send the demo recordings to drummer Devin Tomczik and frantically try to explain the concepts to him. To my undeserved benefit, Devin would always nod and work out any odd syncopation or beat I could dream up. A true friend and collaborator whose only payment was being featured on opening the record with a frenzied mess of drum solos.
I’ve never been all that active in sharing my music. It has existed mostly as a creative reflux, bubbling up on its own and embarrassing me when anyone found out about it. I’ve always had a great interest in listening to my friend’s music, but for the 15 years that I’ve been recording my creations, I’ve only recently entertained the idea that they would interested in listening to mine. It was a simple epiphany: Humans are not dissimilar. If you are interested in someone else’s music, someone else is interested in yours.
Recently, sitting at my studio computer while listening to a recording that was released by a friend, I realized that I wanted to be closer to it. I wanted to know how they recorded it, how they wrote it, how they mixed it, but as with most independent music, these details were undocumented. Once again, my eye’s focus softened and sat upon my own image reflected in the monitor as I thought, “If you are interested in someone else’s creative process, someone else is interested in yours”.
After weeks of failed equivocation, here I am writing the first post in my creative blog.
So as our band stumbles through the process of creating our next album, I intend to update this weekly with overly honest posts showcasing poor miking techniques, overworked mixes, and under-rehearsed performances, finally exposing us as the degenerate frauds we are. Either that or it will nurture a deeper connection between the abyss of ourselves and the bounty of our shared humanity.
DAVID LINDSTROM 