Sometimes in the Fall

Laughing over some memory, Colleen grabbed my arm Saturday and exclaimed "wasn't college just the best time ever?" I fell silent and could give no answer. What I meant to say was that college wasn't the best time ever, that this was. Walking through Soho in t-shirts in October with the sun on our bare arms and in our eyes, making us squint, was perfect. As was brunch the next day, with everyone crowded at cafe tables laughing over mimosas while the sun in the windows made us all shed scarves and sweaters. How can I say I was happier then, years ago and further south, yet still with her and with the sun always in our eyes?

How do you compare joys?

Barranquilla

Now that every song is a reminder,
You should know that I talk about you
constantly and speak your name
every time conversation will allow
to the friends who I measure against you.

I wouldn't say the word "lonely", but
here is the truth of this past year:
Store bought wine never tastes as good
as those bottles we shared in restaurants
and I hardly ever want to dance anymore.

I do not know what Barranquilla is like,
and I cannot picture your new house
or how the weather is as seasons change.
The afternoons are getting hotter here.
Is it something like that down there?

Review: "Night Falls Over Kortedala"

I many ways this album, Jens Lekman's first in over three years, is beautifully done. Even with it's largely melancholic subject matter, "Night Falls Over Kortedala" is a surprisingly cheerful experience. The bright instrumentals and catchy refrain of "The Opposite of Hallelujah" actually made me smile through the entire song while sitting alone in my living room. Campy horns, lavish strings and the invocation of styles ranging from 50's pop to jazz to lounge music on the widely varied tracks make the album both stylistically and technically excellent.

In spite of the joy, intelligence and humor employed in this album, something is missing; there is some small failure here. Jens tries to address this lack himself in his blog. He writes:

"For the songs on this record I wanted my music to meet the world, meet other people and see other places. I wanted to take it out like an old dog and let it sniff around. But I failed. Instead the whole record stays within the 30 square meters of my apartment all the way to the last song when I take a short bus ride to the country, which is just two hours from here."

I disagree. I don't see Lekman as failing to bring his music out, but instead as failing to bring his listeners into his world. Lekman's prior work, the work that I have fallen in love with, is far more honest. Songs like "Sky Phenomenon" and "Rocky Dennis' Farewell Song" offer a sense of intimacy and insight to the listener that is largely lacking on "Kortedala". This amazing candidness does peek it's head out in certain moments, in Jens' discussion of his shy childhood on "It Was a Strange Time In My Life" or in the image of two lovers holding each other on the couch of an ER waiting room in "Your Arms Around Me". However, these moments tend to be lost among the backup vocals and stylized instrumentals that make up the album. "Night Falls Over Kortedala" is enjoyable and fun but I would much prefer a return to simple songs of piano and strings supporting Jens Lekman's rich voice and quirky sadness.

A True Story

I fell in love once for one half of an hour
With a doe-eyed boy in a train station
Somewhere in New Jersey.

We exchanged shy glances, spoke about music
Before leaving to opposite sides of
This lonely continent.

An Inside Joke

We met on monday and fell in love after only three days. It just happened. There was nothing I could do. It’s the real thing with rainbows and ponies and shit! I SAW them, man. Word. I mean, I guess it could just be the ketamine, but I think it’s love...

Those may not be exact words, but when I told the story to a new friend this weekend he stood up, blocking the sidewalk of second avenue, wearing a “mauve” denim jacket over a black dress and leggings. Ignoring the stares of passerbys, he loudly assured me:

“That is NOT normal. You know that is not normal, right. What kind of a FREAK is this kid?”

It immediately put things into perspective.

Words, Carravaggio, they have a power...

I recently made myself sit through the movie "The English Patient" for the first time after absolutely loving the novel. While my reaction wasn't quite as Seinfeld-esqe as expected, the experience only emphasized the fact that, even when well done, a film can never stand up to a good book.

Going back over my copy of the novel I noticed that I had dog-eared the page containing this passage:


I sank to my knees in the mosaic-tiled hall, my face in the curtain of her gown, the salt taste of these fingers in her mouth. We were a strange statue, the two of us, before we began to unlock our hunger. Her fingers scratching against the sand in my thinning hair. Cairo and all her deserts around us.

Was it desire for her youth, for her thin adept boyishness? Her gardens were the gardens I spoke of when I spoke to you about gardens.


These few lines are infinitely more powerful and erotic than the simulated sexual acts of two actors on a screen. Desire so strong that it becomes a garden, an oasis for a man dying in a desert cannot be imitated or affected. It's seems to be a contradiction, but often, something as physical and tactile as love can only be recreated through language.

So, in a roundabout way, I get to my point. While I find blogging to be somewhat self-indulgent and even distasteful, there are some things that can only be said with the written word. There are things that can't be shared on a myspace page or on the phone or over drinks. I'll try to put those things here while making a solid effort not to bore you with the minute details of my daily life. If you really must know- at any given moment I'm either answering the phones, myspacing, reading, staring into space or drinking.