Hey Marseilles: Rio

Who are these people?! Loving this song and all of the happy dancing in the video. Thanks Ali!

Oh Land

Last October I was at a party with John M, talking with a very sweet Scandinavian girl who was new to New York and had just moved to Brooklyn, not far from John. We happened to be seeing a Danish pop singer, Oh Land, the next week at a gallery that our friend runs, so we decided to invite our new blonde friend along to the show. Her response?

"I am Oh Land."
"Oh, you know her music!"
"Yes, I am Oh Land."
"What? You like Oh Land?"
"No, I am Oh Land."
"Oh."

And then I ran away and got more champagne and hid in a corner and John continued talking with her. (This is how John and I differ socially.)

Anyway, she seems to be doing well, is super pretty, and is opening for Katy Perry this fall! Go Oh Land.

Mynabirds

Some of my favorite people and I stayed up way past our bedtimes on Monday for the Mynabird's late show at Mercury Lounge. As often happens when seeing these shows, I didn't know much about the band ahead of time. But if Laura says I'll like something, I probably will.

According to their website:

What We Lose in the Fire We Gain in the Flood was recorded in the rugged hills of Oregon in the summer of 2009 with singer-songwriter/producer Richard Swift at the helm. When they finished recording each night, they’d polish off a bottle of whiskey and dance to records — Dandy Livingstone, Buffy Sainte-Marie, James Brown — until the sun came up.

Yes, I want to listen to music like that!

However. The sad-and-sorry point that is sticking with me from that night is that I am getting old. We all are. Six otherwise happy-go-lucky concert goers who adore the Mynabirds and bands that sounds like them started to squirm with achiness an hour after the show was supposed to start. Seriously, Mercury Lounge, start your shows on time! I just can't stand that long with all those young hipsters bumpin' into my gym bag! I was even sipping whiskey!

Due to this extended wait, your audience ends up a little sleepy and distracted during the actual show. Instead of enjoying the music as fully as they should, they find themselves fixating on whether or not they, too, could pull off a cute, short white vintage mini-dress as well as the darling blonde lead singer before blinking out if it three songs later. (The final conclusion was no, Sarah, you cannot pull that off.) You get my point.

I'm old.

But the Mynabirds are worth your while. (AND from Nebraska! Who knew?!)

Now, Now

Bradley (or as John likes to call him-- Boo-Radley. Get it?) Hale was in town last night with his band Now, Now-- formerly Now, Now Every Children-- playing a show at The Highline Ballroom. The show was delightful and strong and polished-- much like the man himself.

We had dinner in Chelsea post performance, where we talked about Brad's new life as a rock star, his European tour, how John used to make us lay on his floor in college and listen to Sigur Rós with our eyes closed, and about the time Brad left my dorm room senior year with my bra accidentally caught in the hood of his sweatshirt. Sorry about that, Boo-Rad.

And look! Now, Now is soon going to blow up before our eyes, even Interview wrote about them. Have fun in Boston, guys, and come back soon.


ALSO: Brad is an insanely talented graphic designer/printer/artist. He is doing freelance work on the road, and you should hire him. More here.

Bing Crosby Christmas Album

I mentioned that I've been listening to Bing Crosby's Christmas album this morning to Little Sister, who immediately sent this little ditty my way:

"a couple of a teenage tune-smiths around hollywood here. mel torme and bob wells of pendenitum wrote a song that i consider quite appropriate for tonight. skitch i'd like to do it for ya. it's called the christmas song."

Bing Crosby's Christmas album is the best because he encourages you to sing along before EVERY carol. It's as if he's running one of those public radio fund-raising drives, asking for 'just ten dollars a month, to keep our programming strong', but instead of money he's asking us to 'sing along, wherever you are!' 'Just tap your toes!' 'Get into the Christmas cheer!'. It's amazing.

Also, he uses the phrase 'gee-wiz' while doing so three times throughout the recording. Em and I have it memorized, hence the Mel Torme bit above. That's not a lyric found online, people, that is honest-to-goodness memorization on her part. This album is in our BLOOD, yo.

And pulling out Bing's version of The First Noel or Jingle Bells or A Christmas Song, or White Christmas (!!!!) really is the best prescription for a bad mood, even if it's only November. NOT that I've been in a sour mood for the past day, FINE, week. Not that I've been slamming doors and rolling my eyes and pouting around listing off all the the terrible things about my little life that I normally hold dear.

I'm ready, dear reader. Ready for tinsel and lights and angels and shopping and garland and the other Garland. Bring it, Bing.

Karen O at MoMA

If you ever have the chance to attend one of MoMA's parties in the garden, GO. Especially if the weather is a perfect 75 degrees, the sky is full of stars, and Karen O is singing the Where the Wild Things Are theme on a tiny stage right in front of you.

It was the type of party that I always imagined people in New York attending when growing up so far from here, reading the third chapter of The Great Gatsby so many times the pages fell from their bindings. They dress that little garden in twinkle lights and hang paper lanterns from those dripping willow trees JUST like Jay Gatsby did every summer, I swear.

It makes for a stunning evening-- so much so that you might just mistaken Midtown for East Egg, Rodin for Eckleburg, and Maps for a love song. (It isn't. It's a terrible song about a rockstar who travels the world sleeping with his fan base. Everyone knows that, but it STILL made me gasp into happy tears.)

Don't be fooled, though, into thinking that my life really looks like that, with those silly people, under those tricky stars. In the end, I have more in common with Nick Carraway than Daisy Buchanan, and one day from now I will be floating down the Loup River in Nebraska in a cow tank with a cooler. I'll be wearing mud shorts and a baseball cap, with the Yeah Yeah Yeah's blasting from my boom box. Can't wait :)

PS, Wish I had a better photo than the blur of Karen O above taken with the camera on my phone. I was apparently too busy dancing to take anything of the garden itself, whoops. And thanks again, J, for inviting me. It was just lovely.

Walter Martin & Paloma Muñoz: The New Pornographers NEW Album Cover

Don't you just love when bands use the work of contemporary artists on their album covers? In fact, I admittedly judge bands who use lame photographs of themselves making sultry eyes, and give graces to those who chose an appropriately felt piece of art instead. (This is an exception. You can use your own photograph if you also have a sword and an old car from the 70s and no shoes. IRONY, get it?)

The New Pornographers released a new album a few days ago and imagine my thrill when low and behold, one of my favorite photographs was proudly displayed it's glossy cover. The album is 'Together' and the artists are Walter Martin & Paloma Muñoz, who I've seen multiple times at P.P.O.W. in Chelsea. Also, my friend Kim owns a print of theirs that hangs modestly in her kitchen hallway of which I'm insanely jealous. (Oh, is that a good artist? I just bought it at an auction, I thought it was pretty!)

Anyway. I've yet to listen to this album as, well, let's not get into my difficulties with itunes and the checking account fraud that victimized me Wednesday morning, but Neko seems to be there in the snow singing her little heart out on the website version, so I'm not worried. But I need to start listening soon, as one Miss Katinka Henly has warned us all that The New Porns are singing exclusively from this album on their upcoming tour of which we are all attending. Crossing my fingers for Myriad Harbor, though. Please, Neko! It's been a rough week...

Florence and the Machine

Reason #101110000 why New York is great: If you like a band, chances are they will be playing a show in the city within a few months of your interest.

And sure enough, Florence and the Machine (Like Jem and the Holograms and Barbie and the Rockers, right?) played at Terminal 5 on Friday to crowd of giddy Brooklynites who knew all the words. I started listening to her about a month ago when Al and Laura talked me into buying a $25 ticket to see this unknown band with arguments such as 'you'll like her, she has red hair!' and 'had she been around ten years ago, she would have played at Lilith!' Okay!

Well, sure enough, I quickly empathized with that red hair and those strong female vocals and one month later was standing at Terminal 5 with my girls (and their boys) waiting for MY NEW FAVORITE BAND to walk onstage at Terminal 5.

My pals and I weren't all that enthusiastic for the venue, as some of us have seen bands flop at there. The acoustics are bad, the location is TERRIBLE, and you can only buy one drink at a time, so drinking becomes a relay race through swarms of pushy outoftowners. But Florence, dressed in seaweed and feathers (fancy!), not only charmed us into forgetting about all of our First World Problems but also got us to dance-- To jump in unison and to dance like teenagers.

She's mix of Tori Amos and Fiona Apple, but dresses like Lady Gaga, and curiously sites her influences as Fairuza Balk (from The Craft!) and Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Girl, you had me at mermaid.

Next up? Stars and New Pornographers-- get ready, summer.

Ugo Rondinone

Speaking of Florence again... I just learned that Florence of Florence and the Machine based the song 'The Dog Days are Over' on Ugo Rondinone's installation on London's South Bank. LOVE THAT.

She apparently used to bike by this piece during art school and decided to write a song about 'that feeling of being free'. Also, the drumming sound in that song was made by her banging her hands against the wall, as recorded in her studio apartment. HOW COOL IS SHE!? (You know Ugo from his installation at the New Museum just-a-hop-skip from my offices here in Soho. Hell, yes!)

And, if you are curious, I also just learned that the phrase 'dog days of summer' refers to Sirius, the Dog Star that hits in late summer. The 'dog days' are the hottest days of summer, a time when all creatures become languid. Good stuff.

Florence and the Machine

SPEAKING OF FLORENCE--- I'm seeing Florence and the Machine in a couple of weeks at Terminal 5 and just can't wait. So what if she's all over this trailer. Which, lets just be honest, I also just can't wait for Eat, Pray, Love. Judge if you will.

Belle & Sebastian

This song has been in my head for three days. I love it, especially that part in the last (or almost last) verse where he skips a stanza and just lets the music go on without him.

That's all.

Good night, New York. Sleep well. Pancakes in the morning.

With a Little Help From My Friends

Let me share with you a little story called 'My Wednesday.'

It actually started about three months ago when my colleague Vivien announced that she had just won tickets to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Looking back, I'm a bit confused as to why I decided to then immediately try to win some myself-- as I haven't ever actually SEEN The Daily Show-- but win them I did.

I coaxed John and Katie to come as my guests to see the taping this afternoon. We arrived at Jon Stewart's studio around 3pm (all the way out on 11th avenue and 52nd street which feels like the ends of the earth) dressed in many layers with hot Starbucks cupped in our mittened fingers. John and Katie soon admitted that they too had never seen the show (if you are a huge Daily Show fan, my sincere apologies for taking these tickets from real fans. Basically we all just thought Jon Stewart is sexy and had very few other opinions on the matter) but stand there we did. In line. For almost THREE HOURS.

Now, the first hour was fun. John, Katie, and I act like fifteen year olds when we get together. We people watch, make fun of each other, talk about boa constrictors, old professors, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh. I love them, and there are very few people who can keep me as entertained in a line all the way out on 11th avenue in the freezing January wind for an hour as Katie and John can. But bit by bit your girl Sarah eventually here got a little fussy.

And by hour two she got REAL fussy. Might I remind you that I had reserved tickets for all of us? And here we were, standing in the freezing cold waiting to be told what the hell we were doing out there for over TWO HOURS.

By hour three I had about hit my limit. I was cold. I was hungry. I was tired of standing, and I was annoyed at the world. (At this point I probably should have just gone home, but my story continues...)

We were finally let indoors to a quite shabby studio (like, LOW BUDGET studio, people. Could have been the Gage County Fairgrounds for all I know) with fingers, toes, and noses that had gone completely numb. I shot daggers with my eyes at 'Phil' who told us about a kajillion times to take off our belts before going through the metal detectors (to which John, without fail, just audibly asked 'do we have to take off our belts?' each time Phil asked if we had questions) and grumpily fell into my seat at the very edge of row three.

Katie and John did their best to stay positive, but things like 'at least we get to see John Stewart!' become less than appealing to someone who doesn't even watch the program. We joked some more, we watched two slightly nerdy teenage boys from Jersey flirt with an intern, and I complained. 'I don't even care about famous people!' I ranted. 'Famous people no longer excite me at all, this is the worst idea ever, its only for tourists, WHY are we still waiting!?'

But then.

Oh, but then.

I was humbled.

Humbled by-- ironically-- a very, very famous person.

A person that once made America swoon in unison.

Ladies and Gentleman, Ringo Starr appeared. Not only appeared, but started to sing. And your girl Sarah-- the one who was so crabby that the warm-up guy 'Paul' called me out in front of the ENTIRE audience for not clapping or repeating his idiotic questions ('Are you ready to see John Stewart?!' ' I SAID, are you ready to see John Stewart!?' 'You can do better than that, ARE YOU READY TO SEE JOHN STEWART?!' and so on.)--- started to cry. I burst into happy tears, right there in the middle of my hissy fit.

If there is one Beatles song that will always, without fail, bring me pause and a smile to my face it is 'With a Little Help My Friends.' It reminds me of my childhood-- of my mother's old psychedelic box of 45's that my sisters and I used to play on our playschool record player in the basement. It reminds me of my first ever crush-- Kevin Arnold from The Wonder Years. It reminds me of high school-- of swaying back and forth at prom with my best girlfriends to cheesy songs about friendship, and it reminds me of my old Chevy Lumina and the road trip I took to Colorado with Meghan upon graduation. And you have to admit-- even without emotional attachments-- It's just a good song.

And I, out of nowhere, got to see Ringo Starr perform it live (with Ben Harper, of all people) three rows from the makeshift studio stage. So there I stood, in complete awe and sincere thanksgiving to Jon Stewart and Ringo Starr for humbling my jaded spirit. It's been a rough month for me. It has. I've had ups and downs that you wouldn't believe. But in that moment I was able to look over at Katie and John, who for the entire evening had put up with my sour attitude then loved me anyway when I continued to pout. I was humbled to know that yes, I will get by. I'll get by with a little help from my friends.


***Note: No, I did not know that Jon Stewart would have guests on the show, and until he was announced, I did not realize that the guest would be Ringo Starr. I assumed it would be someone political. Also, John Stewart was AWESOME. He is a gracious human being who joked with the audience, was kind to his staff, and complimentary towards Starr and Harper. He seemed like a first rate human being, and if you were wondering, is just as sexy in real life as he is on TV.

Sufjan Stevens: Come Thou Fount

Well, it's December, folks. Christmastime is here. And before I dwell too much on the glory of December, let me paint you a few pictures of the holiday season here at 50 Downing Street.

Scene 1: Annie, Katie, and I were gathered in my bedroom in the late evening sometime last week. Annie and Katie were laying on my bed, drawing magpies and swallows and other birds of doom, while I was at my sewing machine, messing around with bits of fabric and paper. The mood was an attempt at optimism, although notably somber.

Our discussion somehow suddenly shifted from bird allegories to that silly yet relevant discussion where one gets to imagine big things, out of the realm of reality that we would wish for had we the chance. What would you wish for if you were granted three wishes? (If you don't remember the rules from grade school, you can't wish for money and you can't wish for more wishes.)

Lots of big, heartbreaking wishes were thrown into our little world framed by my bright blue walls and all-white linens. The wishes hung there in the middle of the room like clouds for us to ponder their possible shapes and meanings. We wished for love, wished for understanding. We wished for clarity and talent. I wished for a washer and dryer.

But my favorite wish of all was Katie's wish for the fronts of houses to be set on hinges. She wished that we could open up all of Brooklyn like a dollhouse, and observe the little worlds inside. We could pick up chandeliers like jewelry and watch first hand discussions on little things like paint colors or movie choices to big things like mortgages and marriage. We could learn so much by what is kept indoors and not shared in outside conversation.

Well, fast-forward to scene 2, same apartment, a week later. I found myself standing on the hardwood floor of our little attic apartment, with the proverbial rug pulled out from under me, thinking of Katie's dollhouse wish. Had 50 Downing street been set on hinges, the world outside could have observed the same three girls, the same somber faces (I promise that this post will become less doomy. Bear with me.) all staring at strong and handsome Irishman hacking at the trunk of a 6-ft Christmas spruce with a kitchen knife and a hammer, completely humbled by his kindness.

I'm not going to even attempt to share with you how we got there, who the Irishman is, and why we remained so gloomy (one highlight: me putting the finishing touches on my lovingly dressed tree only to have it topple over immediately, revealing my complete incompetence in doing things like 'putting a real live Christmas tree in a stand with water.') But what I will share is this: what started out to be a miserable evening turned out pretty okay. Nice, even.

I found myself in the third scene, a few hours later, surrounded by my make-shift Brooklyn family of four (John came up after a bit), eating fish sticks and 1/8 of a frozen personal sized pizza off a card table in the middle of the room (we replaced our normal table with a Christmas tree, ha). Sufjan Steven's Christmas album was playing softly behind our laughter.

I hadn't listened to this particular album in a while, and was shocked and so very pleased to hear 'Come Thou Fount', one of my very favorite hymns (one of everyones favorite hymns?), stuck there between 'Angels We Have Heard on High' and 'I Saw Three Ships.' It isn't even a Christmas song, not in the least, and I'd like to think that Sufjan stuck in there because of the word 'Ebenezer' in the second verse. I always thought of Dickens too.

In that moment, surrounded by friends' stories and the heavy scent of evergreen, Sufjan's version of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing kind of saved my life. Well, it didn't save my life, I really am okay. We're all okay. But it did, at the very least, save my evening. Hello, glorious December. Looking forward to whatever you may bring.

Here I raise my Ebenezer

Hither by thy grace I come

And I hope by Thy good pleasure

Safely to arrive at home.

Neko Case

Well, it's been a big week here in Sarah-and-Katie-Land. The women of 50 Downing Street have lived through famine, fire, and flood. (Flooding is actually true-- a radiator pipe burst and soaked my bedroom in water. But at least the heat is working now!)

And who better to understand our desperate travesties than the Middle Cyclone herself-- Neko Case. Neko performed yesterday on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and guess who won 2 tickets to stand and awkwardly and sway in the background during the taping? Her biggest fans and redheaded comrades, Sarah and Katie.

I've told you before why we love Neko. Her strength is something we seek. Her lyrics shoot through us right to the heart of our struggles. 'She gets us,' says Katie, every morning, with a smile.

Come on Sorrow, take your own advice.

***NOTE: We left this taping so embarrassed and giggly that we swore to never show the video to the world. Luckily you can barely see us. (We are on the back riser, in the front row, on the left, behind the drummer in matching green shirts with black cardigans.)

It's REALLY AWKWARD to be filmed while watching music. What do you do with your hands!? Do you sing along? Lordy, that was a test of our strength if nothing else.

Also, they stood me next to the SHORTEST, TINIEST woman I've ever seen, making your girl Sarah look even more like a giantess than I normally do. I definitely did the aforementioned slump-and-lean not out of respect this time, but out of self preservation. So not only was I feeling awkward in my own skin, but was then forced to DANCE to a live filming of one of my favorite songs ever written.

Television tapings are not for the weak of heart.

Oh, AND, the matching outfits were my idea. Looking back, I don't necessarily see the point either.

Regina Spektor

I saw Regina Spektor at Radio City a few weeks back and have been trying to sit down and write about my experience and her work ever since. Where did all of my time go? Finding this video last night gave me a reason to revisit the topic.

Gorgeous, right? I like this video. I LOVE the song. And I am in awe of the girl who sings it.

(But the REAL reason to celebrate is that I finally got a youtube clip embedded into this here bloggy! Good girl, Sarah. You figured something out.)

The Dirty Urchins

The last days of summer-- or, as I prefer to call them, the first days of Fall-- are upon us. The rain has slowed, the weather has cooled, and evenings outdoors are begging my attention. Alex and I spent last evening in Central Park, strolling and picnicing, observing the lovely weirdos who roam Manhattan's largest park during the Blue Hour. Ourselves included, I suppose.

Just before sundown we stumbled upon a band playing at the fountain (the fountain with the angel from Angels in America) and enjoyed what we heard immensely. They are called the Dirty Urchins (fantastic band name for a band who plays most of its shows for dollar tips in central park next to break dancers, sidewalk artists, and that crazy guy with the pink poodle and tutu around his neck) and they cracked me up.

We found ourselves smiling the 'Paul Rudd' smile, as we call it (watch Role Models if you haven't yet) to the folky lyrics of 'Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down', a lovely little tune about-- among other things-- lowering your standards.

They are fresh, they are real, they are enjoyable. And Dirty Urchins, if you're out there-- keep doing what you're doing. And I hope you got lots of beer last night with that tip money.

W.P.A. at Joe's Pub

We have yet to discuss my favorite band. Seems a bit peculiar, as I have almost 150 posts about 'things I like.' You would think that Nickel Creek would be one of them.

I think Laura first told me about them. She must have burned me a Nickel Creek cd, like a good sister would. La, do you remember? Em? Somehow we got ahold of their first album and listened to it until we knew every string, every pluck. Its bluegrass reinvented, like nothing I had heard before. It was heartbreaking music. But it was also fun and fast and lovely and sounded like something from another time, another era. We like things like that.

I first saw Nickel Creek in concert in Minneapolis for my 22nd birthday. Laura drove 9 hours from Nebraska to surprise me and Emily (although Em was in on it, as I later realized.) I remember first hearing them live and feeling like my heart was physically expanding. That this music was somehow made for the three of us.

We then saw them live in Lincoln the next year at that old theater downtown. We ran into the band on the street afterword, and after thanking them for a beautiful show, Chris Thile looked me dead in the eye and said, "Third balcony? First row?" (Yes, Chris Thile! I WAS in the third balcony, first row! And you were clearly singing to me the entire time!) That was a nice moment.

I saw them again in Central Park two summers ago for their 'Goodbye for Now' tour with Fiona Apple, who is a crazy person. It was titled 'Goodbye for Now' as a way of announcing a Nickel Creek recess in which they would all explore solo careers. Since then, Chris debuted one of the most GORGEOUS albums I've ever heard. Its called How to Grow a Woman from the Ground Up and makes me ache for my early days in New York, as for a few weeks it was the only friend I had (go ahead, laugh at that statement. But you know how that is. Music as a prescription for loneliness.)

Sara Watkins introduced her own solo album this year, a softer compilation of old bluegrass tunes and a few gospel melodies. Sean has been around the world and back, lending his talent to different projects, new voices.

And now this. W.P.A. (named for the Works Progress Association, which was part of Roosevelt's New Deal. Love that.) is a new band composed of eight musicians with crazy talent. Sara and Sean Watkins are two of them (as is Glenn Phillips of Toad the Wet Sprocket) and this was only their fifth show ever performed. And the place was packed. A very interesting-- and dare I say rare-- experience to sell out a show on your fifth performance as a band. Also rare to be in the audience. It was a priviledge, a treat.

I can't say that the evening was perfect. If I were in California and this was November I would blame the Santa Annas. If I believed in astology I would blame the New Moon that hit last night's dark August sky. But this is New York and we don't believe in silly things like that. (Perhaps I can blame this long August heat though. Its getting to us all, isn't it?)

Joe's Pub is a fun place to see a show. Its a dinner theater setting, which I wasn't exactly expecting. It's part of the Public Theater, the same people who produce Shakespere in the Park and lots and lots of new talent. Its a tiny little space, which of course can create tension it itself.

We agreed, Al, Annie, and I, that Sara and Sean Watkins were the clear talent. They outshone Glenn and Luke and the four other members whose names I won't remember. They had the gut, they had the gusto. Sara belted 'Long Hot Summer Days', a song from her solo album, until the hair on the backs of our necks stood up. You couldn't be in the room and not get it, not understand how good that was. It is a rare thing, that talent. (Go download it. Download it right now.)

The evening made me miss my sisters, as I probably could have predicted. It made me wish they could have been there with me, in excitement and appreciation. But Laura is off delivering babies and Emily starting her first week of grad school and we will be together again soon I'm sure.

But the moment Nickel Creek gets back together for some sort of 'Hello Again' tour, you can bet your bottom dollar that the Butler girls will be there listening. Third balcony. First row.

Jonatha Brooke: Mad Sq Music

Jonatha Brooke performed a nice little concert last night in Madison Square Park. Al, Lizbug, and I attended and it was lovely.

Its my second favorite type of summer event --the "free outdoor concert on a lawn with blankets and food and wine"-- next to my number one favorite event which is the same thing but with a movie, not a singer.

And I would be at a perfect summer outdoor movie situation tonight-- Paper Moon playing in Brooklyn Bridge Park-- if it weren't for the stupid rain and the stupid tickets that I have to a Broadway show this evening. Ugh.

My life is so hard.

;)

Neko Case

My love, I am the speed of sound

I left the motherless, fatherless

Their souls dangling inside out from their mouths

But it's never enough

I want you

The best part of the Neko concert on Monday night was the moment when Neko decided to set the scene for the her cover of Harry Nilsson's "Don't Forget Me."

"Pretend its the morning time and you're drinking beer and smoking hash for breakfast," she said. "There are hanging ferns everywhere in those brass hanging planters. You're in a big wooden hot tub from the 70's and it smells like cedar."

Awesome, Neko. You get it.

Roomie and I bounced up to Times Square after work on Monday and stood front row, jumping around and singing our little hearts out like sixteen year olds. Neko falls easily into our taste in music... folky, lyrical, indie girl singers. We love Jenny Lewis/Rilo Kiley, Feist, Regina Spektor, Stars, Jewel (yes, Jewel.), Jem, Bird and the Bee, Martha Wainwright, Imogen Heap... people like that.

But there is something different about Neko... something Katie and I could only pinpoint as 'womanly'. 'She is such a... woman!' we kept saying as we walked from Times Square to Bryant Park at midnight-thirty. And she is. She stood center stage with crazy red hair, feet firmly planted, throat open to the sky, singing about tornadoes and magpies and killer whales.

She is Mother Earth, with vines and cornucopias and fruit stemming from her words, from her vigor. She makes us want to be stronger, makes us want to be more radiant women. We like people like that.

If you don't already, start reading Katie's blog. Then picture Katie and I, two other crazy redheads, singing to Neko Case at the top of our lungs as we brush our teeth each morning. Because as Katie says... 'She gets us.'

Glorybox

Have you heard this song? (Don't watch the video, it's extremely unimportant. Just have it open in another window while you read this post. Wow. Bossy.) I hadn't heard it until tonight. It's the type of song that we feel like we know because it reminds us of music past. It's feels a bit prohibition, a bit heavy lounge. When I finally determined that it wasn't something in my slim repertoire I made my dance instructor repeat the title and the artist's name about three times before it finally stuck, then downloaded it immediately upon my midnight return home.

I danced to Glorybox tonight and can say with strict confidence that it was one of the greatest classes I've ever taken. The song is a bold glass of Cabernet. It's kissing under streetlamps, it's a slice of flourless chocolate cake. It's smooth, its passionate, its indulgent. And I, dear reader, learned a dance to it. And if the song sets the flourless-chocolate-tone, you can only imagine this dance's physical reenactment.

I have little else to say because some things are better felt... dance allows this exception to my standard droning wordage. It's why we get along, dance and I. Dance is a way of feeling without thinking. It's muscular memory, its comfort in motion. And nothing sets the tone for a Friday night better than enabling raw physical emotion, am I right? I did just that before starting an evening of good friends and affirming conversation. Listen to it. Again. It'll make your night, I swear.

Note: The photo above has little to nothing to do with this post. I just had a really difficult time finding a picture to illustrate a song/dance/random thought so I just chose a photo that I took a few years ago. I loved the mellow tackiness of this 'GYM' sign that I saw along side the road in art-town-Michigan on a roadtrip with my mom. 'Good enough!' said I. Although... the 'Glorybox' experience did take place in a gym, so I guess it fits in some ways. That's all.