bruit

(Ok, so that song is about narcotics, but I wish it was still on the radio cuz it BANGS.)

Here at the coffee shop they are playing The Very Best of the Grateful Dead. Smooooth. Maybe the best possible thing to hear while writing a final paper about medieval philosophers' suggested means of knowing the divine. If only Plotinus had been to a Dead show, maybe visited Yung Joc's coffee shop first, he probably would have revised his position on denial of the flesh as the best means of ascending to the One. Maybe. 

There are a generous handful of near-perfect coffee shops in Chicago. I love them at finals time, and I dedicate the next handful of entries to them.  

This is a super mellow space with friendly and adorable counter-culture, usually good art on the walls, eclectic tunes (see above), self-roasted coffee at reasonable prices, good wifi, DIY tea blends, zero attitude, and a great outdoor space for summertime. Only possible minus is the limited bagel-based-ness of the food options, but really, I am here to drink coffee and work or hang out, and today they happily toasted a couple of slices of (tragic) gluten-free bread for me to eat with my au lait. Star Lounge sells fantastic bike-friendly travel mugs. Mayan Mocha with cinnamon and red pepper flakes. Everything you want in an independent coffee shop. 

More to follow... 

I am eating passion fruit ice cream made of coconut milk, which is genius, and thinking about other genius, and so joining the chorus of praise for Merriweather Post Pavillion. I have never found Animal Collective's music so very "difficult," had the good luck of reveling in the joyful energy of a couple of early-ish and more intimate live shows (an an awkward experience feeding the band burritos, ask me about it sometime). Anyway all the hubbub about how accessible this work is feels a bit irrelevant to me personally, because in the room with the music played live, it was/is(?) so natural to feel alive and a part of something alive. A real alchemy and a kind of spiritualism, that makes you feel weird and good.

The triumph of this album is distilling all that into a piece of recorded music. This operation required that craft take the place of mojo--no small challenge. Craft at that level necessarily calibrates (but does not diminish) the weirdness and foregrounds the goodness. But that is not what I meant to write about. 

What I meant to write about is the play between the music and lyrics of "My Girls." Sonically, it is a kind of outer-space euphoria, this song. The kind that, on headphones, makes a commute feel like a trip to church--for someone who loves church. (See also: Alice Coltrane's "Lovely Sky Boat" and "Oceanic Beloved" on A Monastic Trio.)

AC's towering and tumbling excess advance a lyrical statement that when you have a family, your needs and desires change and grow, but can still remain simple, and that what children need is love and presence. Very rock and roll, no? trés avant garde. Something about the juxtaposition is really gorgeous to me, outlandish techne in the service of simplicity and a veneration of home--that sort of play permeates the album. In checking out the Pitchfork review before posting, I found that I agree with their assessment of how the lyrics are operating here.  

...and the new Neko Case this morning. Listened to it twice as I made a psuedo-Costa Rican breakfast of black lentils, plantain/rutababaga hash, simple slaw with cider vinegar and lime, avocado, almond milk stained with coffee. Every component a little bit estranged from its origins, but with essences intact. Thanks to my girl-friend for passing along the CD, Middle Cyclone. Some songs immediately catchy, mostly pretty catchy, but I am operating under the assumption that it's going to take a headphone listen or 4 before they start to open up. So stoked for the show, thanks again to my curly hair friend. 

Last night, B. and I saw Our Lady of the Underpass at Victory Gardens. It was a great play, my experience of it blunted a bit by the fact that I have watched it in development for the past few years. All the more chance to appreciate my love's sensitive mind. La Saracho does it again, she is a master listener, it is above all humane and keenly observed. A few directing choices I would have made differently but... I don't think I ever see a show without some minor quibble, about this or that. We had a nice time drinking superb bubble smoothies afterward and hashing over the fine points of faith and the writer's skill, the fine point of her pen. Que viva nuestra Señora del Fullerton Ave., and faith, where it uplifts, i.e., faith in April on a bitterly blustery first of March.