You are currently browsing Torquil Crossingham's articles.
I’m a busy, busy man. Between honing my new “walk”, keeping up with the constant influx of Elvis Costello re-reissues and preparing for the zombie apocalypse, I don’t have a lot of time to hunker down and listen to music. I do, however, make it a point to set aside a few passing moments every so often to take a good look at music. Therefore, I now present you with a brief analysis of some choice album covers…
Sunset Rubdown have made their triumphant return to Daytrotter.com! As some of you may remember, all the way back in 2K6 they dropped by the Daytrotter studio to record some raucous renditions of older tunes and previewed the then-previously-unreleased “Winged/Wicked Things”, which of course went on to become one of the highlights of this year’s superb Random Spirit Lover. This time they’ve given us yet another brand new jam, “Idiot Heart”, as well as a slower, somewhat ballad-ish run through of “The Mending of the Gown” and the live show highlight “Three Colors” (originally released in two light, breezy parts on their self-titled EP, now somehow transformed into one six-and-a-half minute, vaguely bluesy rager.)
And, of course, it’s all free. God bless Daytrotter and the horse they rode in on.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
I’m a busy, busy man. Between Indie Schmarm staff meetings in our underground bunker, hosting my own cooking show on the Brazilian Food Network and maintaining my bonsai tree sculpture of Jack Bauer, I don’t have a lot of time to hunker down and listen to music. I do, however, make it a point to set aside a few passing moments every so often to take a good look at music. Therefore, I now present you with a brief analysis of some choice album covers…
I’m a busy, busy man. Between golf appointments at the country club, box seats for every local cock fight and charity beer-pong tournaments, I don’t have a lot of time to hunker down and listen to music. I do, however, make it a point to set aside a few passing moments every so often to take a good look at music. Therefore, I now present you with a brief analysis of some choice album covers. In today’s post we shall take a walk through the fertile fields of hard rock…
On October 31st Stylus Magazine, one of the most unique and innovative “webzine” publications around, stopped the presses for good.
Since 2001 Stylus has been a place where some of today’s best music and film journalists (for my money anyway, of which there is little) have been given free reign to publish their most passionate and idiosyncratic missives. In a time when thousands upon thousands of websites devoted themselves to publishing up-to-the-second information 24 hours a day, Stylus completely ignored the news (for the most part) and played chronological Twister like a Chuck Palahniuk novel.
While new record and film reviews were supplied daily, 5 days a week, the site’s bread and butter was their columns. “On First Listen” featured staff writers giving their first impressions of classic bands they by all means should have been familiar with but which had somehow eluded them. The “Bluffer’s Guide” series aimed to get the reader well-versed in obscure musical sub-genres (such as “hiplife“, a West African blend of hip-hop, Christian hymns and big band jazz), obscure film icons (1940’s English filmmaking team Powell & Pressburger) and…Reese Witherspoon. They even had a column (Tape Hiss) devoted to covering cassette-only releases.
Broken Social Scene’s resident scruffy dream hunk, Kevin Drew, has posted a new b-side from his upcoming solo album Spirit If… up on his Ye Olde MySpace Profile. The song carries the quintessentially Drewish title of “Cocaine Skin” (it may be no “Gang Bang Suicide” but I’ll take it.) Personally, the tune puts me in mind of drifting down the Mississippi in a canoe, circa 1920, lying on my back, gazing up at a dreamlike canopy of stars that gradually morphs into a game of Asteroids, all while my Cajun man-servant, Pickle Joe, cooks up a mean cabbage soup on a little stove at the other end of the canoe (it’s a very long canoe.)
Spirit If… drops like a lysergic water balloon on September 18th via Arts & Crafts.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
We here at Indie Schmarm feel it is our duty to not only report the news, but now to also give a weekly recommendation of things that we feel are deemed worthy of our attention. We’ve decided to bring out the big guns and encompass multiple categories such as books, film, T.V., food, sites, culture, activities and of course music.
This last week’s Indie Schmarm recommendations:
The Music:
Jackson Browne - For Everyman
On April 10th one of our favorite bands here at the Schmarm, Bright Eyes, will be appearing on KCRW’s Morning Becomes Eclectic, presumably to play songs off of Cassadaga. Expect a handful of totally gnarly performances and Nic Harcourt’s trademark deeply penetrating interview questions such as, “So you’re from…[paper shuffling]…Omaha. So…tell me about that.”
In addition, fellow bad-ass-songwriter-with-a-new-record-out Maria Taylor will also be on the “MBE” on April 1st. So…bring your nerves of steel.
You can listen to and/or watch the show here.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
March 7th, The El Rey Theater, Los Angeles
Ah, the El Rey…or, for those of you who don’t habla Espaniol, the The Rey. They’ve got a quaint 80’s Santa Fe truckstop diner annexed to the venue where you can procure a bottle of water and a urine-sample-cup’s worth of french fries for the low, low price of $9. It’s pretty sweet. Also, the place smells real nice. I think that’s what attracts most folks to the venue.
Let’s start the new year by loving me. And these people….
So, I’ve had a lot on my plate lately. Filled to the brim, fit to burst, one might say. I’ve been missing out on a lot of things regular Los Angeles folk take for granted, like going to the Getty, getting drinks at Star Shoes, cow tipping, etc. When the new Rafa album finally dropped I didn’t have time to dilly dally in line outside Sam Goody with all the other giddy lil’ youngsters. However, I was able to free up a few spare moments in order to snag a jpeg of the record cover, so I decided I’d just review that….
What is he trying to tell us? What secrets lurk beneath that devil-may-care hairdo and piercing glare? Peel the onion…
Way back in 1798 I was sailing the high seas with an aspiring pirate named Mitch. (Well, his pirate name was Captain Neck-Beard but that’s way more syllables.) He was an eager young buck and, he having just set out on his own, I decided to go on some adventures with him and help out. I served as First Mate, crew, cook and parrot-on-shoulder.
So, one time we were sailing about aimlessly, looking for a place to dock for the eve. Lo and behold we came upon a healthy-sized cave that seemed to suit our requirements to a tee! O happy day! As I fastened the anchor to one of the many smooth white stalagmites I suddenly felt a gooch-quivering rumble…to my surprise I discovered that this was no mere cave. No. Were in the jaws of a mighty giant narwhal!
Maybe you’re out from school early. Maybe you stopped at the local Barnes & Noble, perused for about 45 minutes and bought some music magazine featuring promising articles about bands you hear are important but you can’t muster the energy to care about, all so you can awkwardly “flirt” with the girl at the counter. Lord knows you don’t have anything better to do. Maybe you smoke a cigarette in the parking lot, eyes darting furiously, paranoid a stray teacher from school will catch you and decide to out you and your torrid love affair with Marlboro Lights.
Maybe you sit back in your ‘93 Volvo, not yet ready to go home (or anywhere,) and listen to this wee little ditty over and fucking over because, once again, you really don’t have anything better to do.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
Artist: Headphones
Release: Headphones
Label: Suicide Squeeze
Rating: +5 (on a scale of -5 to +5
Headphones is Gold Bond for your soul.
You don’t know what’s missing in your life. There’s a hole there, deep down in your soul. A big, marionette-shaped hole. You have no idea.
You don’t think you need rapping grizzly bears.
You don’t think you need a stage within a stage.
You don’t think you need musicians talking on cell phones during their own show.
You don’t think you need an air-lifted 20-foot boombox.
You don’t think you need the puppeteers from Team America skillfully crafting more realistic rock’n'roll stage moves than the Rolling Stones have in the past 25 years.
But you DO need all of these things. And Beck knows this. So he’s stepping up to deliver for the greater good of mankind with…
PUPPETRON! (A live music experience of sorts.)
Do yourself a favor. Don’t worry if you have to drive to New Mexico. Make it happen.
There are some tour dates at Beck.com.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
Dearest Matt Mahaffey:
Do we need to break out the charts & graphs? Do we need to put together a formal presentation to illustrate the brilliant, shimmering majesty that was your band, Self? Yeah, I know Dreamworks got gobbled up by a big old corporate jellyfish, in effect killing your new record before it saw the light of day. But there are other fish in the sea. Fish of the non-jelly variety! Hundreds of labels that would love to unleash the muscle-bound musical stallions that you and I both know you are the only man capable of riding! Still not sure?
OK, here’s a little ditty you cooked up in the lab called “Wednesday Again.” I hope it helps convince you to get back in the saddle.
We’re counting on you, Matt. (And by “we” I mean THE ENTIRE WORLD.) Save us.
Sincerely,
Torquil Crossingham
(Those of you eavesdropping on this very private and personal letter to Matt should go to www.selfies.com. And you should keep your nose out of my business. Unless you’re a cute girl. Then your nose has full clearance to enter my business. Not that I’m sexist. I dunno. I’m done.)
In most major US cities, downtown is the creamy, throbbing center of nightlife. Downtown Los Angeles? Not so much. Half of it is a sea of lofts and art galleries where the D-list celebrities of the world congregate to drink Rite Aid champagne and talk about how “misunderstood” socialism is. The other half is a lego-land metropolis of office buildings, home to the alpha baby boomers of southern California. (They moved here in the Summer of Love to do that whole “tune in, drop out, freak out, lube up…whatever” thing, now they tell themselves they’re gonna “corrupt the Man from the inside.” They still keep that Zappa concert ticket stub in their wallets, between the Vons Club card and the card for Guru Sajj, the herbalist, who they swear they’ll be calling any day now.)
Somehow, in the latter half of downtown, Dan and I found something we didn’t even know was missing in our lives.
The Original Pantry (9th & Figueroa) has been kicking around since 1924 and they’re still lightyears ahead of us. Dining there for the first time is like telling your WWII vet grandfather that you just spent 2 hours at the mechanic’s waiting for an oil change. He doesn’t tell you you’re a lazy pantywaist and that he knew how to do an oil change himself by the time he was 3. He just half-smiles and looks kind of confused and you get the feeling he’s thinking it. It’s an educational experience that makes you want to be a better person. Most of these waiters have been working there for over 40 years and they are more man than you or I will ever be. There’s so much to learn.