The Plans Keep Coming Up Again

Plans always sound fantastic when you’re drunk, don’t they? Follow me: you’re at a bar—we’ll call it Niagara. You’re having a few drinks—we’ll call them High Life’s. You’re hanging out with good friends—we won’t call them anything because I respect privacy here. Before long you’re pretty stewed (great new euphemism I learned from The Basketball Diaries, thanks Soybomb), and plans for tomorrow start flying all over the damn place.

Because you’re feeling great, right? You want to let the good times roll. It’s Friday night, a long week of work is behind you and you’re convinced that you’re about to have the best weekend EVER. Gonna knock it out of the park. A conversation might go something like this:

Friend #1: Dude, I’m so glad it’s the weekend.

You: Yea man, me too.

Friend #2: Word. This week sucked.

Friend #1: It’s supposed to be awesome outside tomorrow. Let’s do something sweet.

You: Yea.

Friend #2: Definitely.

Friend #1: You know what we should do?

You: What.

Friend #2: What’s that.

Friend #1: Go hiking.

You: Hiking?

Friend #2: Hiking?

Friend #1: Yea man. Hiking. Think about it. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day. All we do is get on the Metro North, fucking cruise for a few stops, then they let you out right on the camping grounds. So easy. And we can even bring some beers with us and chill out up there. Doesn’t that sound sick? I say we fucking do it.

You: Yea, that does sound cool. Fuck it, I’m down.

Friend #2: Hell yea man, that’s a great idea. Absolutely.

Friend #1: Awesome. Fuck yea. We’re doing it. You guys want a shot?

And that’s how it starts. And ends. It was done before the plans were even thought of. There are any number of scenarios you could slot in here: football games in the park, hitting up a bunch of museums uptown, heading out to Coney Island, skating all day, etc, etc. For some reason, all sound spectacular at 2:30 in the morning.

One of my all time favorites was a plan hatched by a buddy of mine for a party to be thrown on our friend’s rooftop. The idea was to scour the city the following day for buskers (you know, those people that play music in the subway/on the street) to assemble a band to play at the party. Like actually go around and recruit an all-star team of homeless musicians and convince them to play for us (the safety implications were besides the point). Man, what an amazing idea. This is an incredibly ambitious plan for a sober person, nevermind someone who’s three sheets to the wind on a $3 bottle of red wine. Needless to say, it never happened, but you gotta give credit for drunken ingenuity.

Another one that seems to be a favorite is making plans for brunch. First of all, why is everyone so damn obsessed with brunch all of a sudden? Is it a new cool thing for New Yorkers? I always thought brunch was something you did after Easter Mass. Or with your old ass Aunt. Or your in-laws. Something that sucked. Not something that you’re amped about waking up for. Why can’t we call it “getting food when we wake up”? Whatever it is, it rarely happens when you plan it. In fact, brunch often dies the way the aforementioned plans do: I get home around 4AM, pass out, wake up for the first time around 9:45, quickly turn of my phone so as to give myself an alibi in case anyone tries to contact me to actually follow through on said plans (they never do, for the same obvious reasons), then pass out again until around 11:30.

Then my real weekend starts.

For the hell of it, and because they’re one of my favorites, here’s “The Plan” by Built to Spill (old school video!):

Glasser

Psyched on Glasser’s new album Ring. Saw her at the Fader Fort during CMJ last week. She can sing her balls off. At one point during her performance, the power went off in the building. Wouldn’t be surprised if she conjured some crazy spirits to make it happen. I’ve never tried acid, but I’m thinking she may have given it a whirl once or twice. Either way, check her out and take a trip.

Helicopters

So Bradford Cox is gradually making his way onto my list of favorite musicians. This is thanks in no small part to Deerhunter’s new record Halcyon Digest, which carries forward dude’s penchant for writing pretty melodies touched with reverb and psychedelic haze. My favorite song off the album—and not surprisingly the first single—is Helicopter, which puts my head straight into the clouds. Listen to it with headphones. Listen to it in the morning. Listen to it at night. Be careful if you listen to it in your vehicle.

I’ve also been blown away by Bradford’s recordings as Atlas Sound, and his solo show last year at the Bell House was one of the best performances I’ve seen in a long time. I don’t know how he did it, but he layered together soundscapes that took on a life of their own. Dude has some serious songwriting chops too, but his songs can often be just that, serious. So much so, that after the Bell House show ended, he came back on stage to apologize if his songs were too dark. It’s all good though, because the catchy pop melodies will make you forget that you’re listening to some guy sing about his nightmares. Don’t be scurrrred.

“Helicopter”

“Sheila” – Atlas Sound live (amazing)

 

 

Tennis

Nostalgia seems to be a popular theme for young artists as of late. Chillwavers Washed Out, Toro Y Moi, Memory Tapes and others have berthed a veritable genre of music centered largely on warm, woozy jams meant to invoke sentimental ganders back in time. If you throw on one of their records, you just might be brought back to the days when you used to ride a tricycle around the block wearing a football helmet. Back when Contra on Nintendo meant more to you than life itself. Back when “Dinosaurs” was on TGIF and Ricky Henderson was your favorite baseball player. The good old days. And the music’s damn good too.

But few songs I’ve heard make me reminisce on shit that I haven’t even experienced. Check out “Marathon” by the husband-and-wife duo Tennis. I don’t know about you, but when I close my eyes and listen to this song, I’m transported to a party on the beach at night. There’s a bonfire, but the entire scene is black-and-white, like in an old photograph. And the girls are dancing. Man, that sounds like fun.