dear millsblog,

 it’s time for advent– waiting.

I know it will be hard to not open

all the doors on the chocolate calendar at once.

but I believe you can do it.

I’ll be around.

-Andrew

hrm hmm hmmm

“There’s nothing left for you to take away, Hello Hurricane….”

Once or twice in a year one of my favourite artists releases a new album and I go down to the record store early Tuesday morning to pick it up. I was five minutes early this morning and waited impatiently outside.

Switchfoot has dropped their Major Label, gone Indie and built their new Studio “Spot X” since the last album. And after Jon Foreman’s stellar solo EP’s I was pretty expectant for this record.

So true to form, I spent my last dollars on the album, leaving me with a whopping 9 bones in the babylon banking system.

What is it about a new album that can give you a whole new perspective? I’m not sure, but I’m in the middle of the street, blocking traffic, ripping the plastic off the cd as people sip their coffee’s and stare at me. I pop the cd into my discman, roll on my preposterously good “Grado Labs Headphones” (a gift!) and the city is transformed into another world. The sounds of traffic and an ambulance are melting into the sonic atmosphere of the opening chords. I’m walking up into the park. Jon Foreman sings “All is not Lost…All is forgiven” and there is already water in my eyes, walking the labyrinth trails out of public gardens. I’m late for class but it doesn’t seem important.

I need to hear this. I don’t know if  to cynics Switchfoot sound  like they spout a litany of cliches but, in truth, there is real feeling and substance behind these songs.These aren’t sentiments they are battle cries for those wounded where “the static comes alive beneath the broken skies”.

Ever since I was twelve years old and picked up “Learning to Breathe” I felt that Switchfoot was accomplishing everything that I wanted to in a rock band. They made ethereal anthems about brokenness and joy with a heavy low end growl and scattered drums. A compelling balance of defiance and whimsy. Jon’s actually quite an adept lyricist, even when he plays it straight like on Hello Hurricane. He has claimed he writes a song everyday and you can kind of sense the refinement of simplicity.

Jon has claimed that this is the hardest record they have ever written, hoping to craft songs that they would be happy to “Die singing”. The existential urgency is certainly there. Listen closely and you will hear a rallying cry in the face of entropy, disaster and personal failures.

I’m very glad for the darker bent in the material, the bitter pill that is lead single “Mess of Me” balances anger, frustration and a sincere cry of discontent. It is this Discontent which makes Switchfoot U2’s spiritual predecessor. They really took the torch of hopeful alienation, the longing for that OTHER Place, and put some Souther California guitar on it.When Jon Screams “I want to spend the rest of my life ALIVE!” you can hear the vocal chords rattling as a hefty-riff takes the song out. Thank goodness the production is so raw. “The Sound” which claims “Love is the final fight” is equally jarring and rousing.

“Always” is the quintessential Switchfoot song with everything slow burning into a moving anthem. “Hallelujah, I’m caving In” Jon sings a bit raggedly “Hallelujah, I’m a wretched man”.

The record is about love. Love in the face of a hurricane, in the face of falling apart. Love defying entropy. Passion is the operative mode.

You hear “This is the voice of breaking down!” and know that Jon’s on about thermodynamics again (see Entropy). And really physics have been the central metaphysical conceit of the lyricist since “The Beautiful Letdown” which was named so for the idea that if everything in this broken world lets you down then God’s faithfulness becomes all the more beautiful in contrast.

I’m always relieved by Switchfoot’s records. I think it is just knowing that there is still passion out there. That hope surveys the coming storm and sings a joyful song about nothing left to lose. It’s almost hard to listen to because it is such heart music. On “Yet” Jon sings

“If it doesn’t break your heart it isn’t love/ If it doesn’t break your heart it’s not enough/It’s when your breaking down with your insides coming out/that’s when you find out what your hearts made of/ and you haven’t lost me yet…”

May the betrayer be proved loyal

May the coward be proved brave

May the lazy-bones run the race

May the weakling find his strength

May the bitter shout out praises!

May the selfish lay down his life

May the passive finally act

May the lonely open up

May the late arrive early

and May nothing but Christ be seen in them all.

 

Is that the bell to sound that the race is already over?

your running now anyway

Were you asleep? (how could you be asleep that long?)

You are awake now, the veins in your head are throbbing out

Running…

More than late,

too late.

what is too late?

your going to give too late a run for it’s money

your behind everyone

everyone else is on the last lap, and the crowd is laughing at you

the proverbial turtle who took a nap and thought he was a rabbit

but it doesn’t matter your pushing against it all now

the bronchial burst of your lungs and the coldness of oxygen,

upping the pace above the frenzy of your frailty (the flesh is weak!)

you look ridiculous, you are a cautionary tale, your folly obvious

Too late! the crowd mocks you, TOO LATE they laugh

but your running faster now,

somehow you know she might not, probably won’t, can’t be there,

there will be no rescue, at least not how you think now Son of Adam

it doesn’t matter, that is not the question anymore, your ears are roaring in the cold,

sweat obscures your vision

and you wonder at your script

who is writing this? If it is really “Too Late” does that make your story a tragedy?

the crowd seems to think it’s a comedy (your lopsided running)

let them laugh you think, upping the pace again, way out of your depths

Let us show “too late’ a thing or two pounds the rhythm of your feet

Too late for what? for your own self-fulfilment, certainly

the clock was up on that from the beggining…

to late for some flashy, wordly emptiness…definitely

too late for peaceful idylls of love- who knows?

these questions don’t matter

you are going to make it a story at least now,

throwing your broken body up agains the very real concrete wall of “too late”

Oh Spirit that strengthened the Legs of Elijah who ran faster than the King’s Chariot from the Darkening Sky

Strengthen this sinners legs now!

and everything is blurring (but becoming clear)

and the crowd is no longer laughing as you burst around the bend

because “too late” is a myth when your heart’s still beating

Mute Math Stall Out
Racing on a faultline
Bracing for a landslide
Conscious of every move getting harder
Has the race gone underwater?

I keep stalling out
I just can’t keep up
There’s alarming doubt
Am I good enough?
But you keep coming around
To convince me
It’s still far from over, oh

We are still far
We are still far
We are still far from over

I just wanted a little Time…now Time wants a little of me

Who wrote those trite words about self-improvement-mixtapes and forgot to delete the post?

Who sat out in the sun until skin and heart were sore and burnt, but didn’t move to pick up the phone?

Who waited and watched while “We” became more and more real, enlarging in his sight, but couldn’t yet grasp the picture.

Who loosely talked of sanctification knowing not what it really meant.

Who cried a thousand tears, ignoring the knocks on the door, turning the music up and waited, and waited for himself and for his breath to be less ragged?

Who felt the speed gaining downhill through the city on a bike through the rain and thought of you?

Who lost himself under the weight of a thousand existential panics and needed to throw off his heart for a while to find it again but couldn’t find it for the maze of contradictions and then sobbed the outlines of the missing organ?

Who’se choices appeared so terrifying to himself that paradoxically made all the hardest ones in a show of courageous, and ill informed, machochismo?

Who thought he could purge and save himself, through the will of brave decisions and intentions, to escape the damnation and the existential vacuum of modern society?
Who feared aloneness so much, and felt the challenge so heavily, to face it, maybe unnecessarily.

Who needs what your hands brought, who feels your light growing, peripherally everyday, without any words left to say.

I didn’t know that I wouldn’t have the time…

“Coping with this loss has broken me
And I’m just hoping things are all as they should be
I pictured you and…”

the requisite strangeness

City of spirits. The whole plane starts roaring, people lean back, hearts palpitating, white man medicine is machinery of anti-gravity. Oil, black blood of the earth is the sacrament of flight and pristine miracle of science.  Cutting through the atmosphere in a quaking aluminum hull at 1000 kilometres an hour and still unable to catch the plot. Landing in ghost-ruins. City of warped perception and half finished construction sites.

Canadiana.  The cracks where the dark gets in. spiritual scare tactics. light a candle and chase off the ghouls.

Rewire. coffee breaks every 20 minutes. adrenaline insomnia. threats of prairie thunder. Rain breaks oppression of heat. Slip in the grass. dostoevskian fever talk about learning russian to avoid stilted academic translations. parodies of joy disintegrating to the real thing in spite of ourselves.

Righteous indignation of the ’social justice’ crowd just tires me out now.

When will the revolution start migrating from ‘the streets’ to our hearts where it will also do some good?

They win me over with their kindness though. At least as long as I have a beard and bad haircut I am ‘part of the movement’.

Thinking about compassionate language as self-delusion- the middle child syndrome- accomplishment driven. Doesn’t bother me anymore- the wonderful neurotic people trying to fix something with whatever. God will change our hearts.

“I have often been staggered by the forces of the ordinary that cajole the human experience into cowardice. Relentless mass-mediated daydreams croon lullabies to nightmare; meat hook economic rackets hijack freedom with student loans, predatory credit, and eternal mortgages; narratives of responsibility harass the mind with financial planning, time-management, highly-effective habits; and illusions of security, insurance, and retirement prod us into proper place. Lurching through life in the midst of such clamor, is it any wonder that so many trade the tremendous for the trivial, that the ecstatic fantastic wow of existence dims into murk and shadow, flickering into fluorescence like some stepped-on plastic geranium?”

-Tony Vigorito

Wired: But “real” for you is so … unreal. You set The Strain in New York. In the past, your depictions of the city, from Mimic to Blade II to Hellboy, have had a fabulous aspect.

Del Toro: “It comes from my first trip to New York as a child. I was walking around Central Park, and I saw one of these expensive apartment buildings. At the top was a Gothic tower, and I said to my mother, “A vampire lives there.” I wasn’t being metaphorical. Then we went into the subway and—wow! For a guy from Guadalajara, the subway is mythical. The underground of the city is like what’s underground in people. Beneath the surface, it’s boiling with monsters.”

Chai Guevara

An idea came to me for a future coffee shop venture.

Chai Guevara: serving the revolution a cup at a time.

that halifax fog

rests heavy at the bottom of your lungs

loose potentialities banging against one another -caffeine optimism

traverse down esoteric lanes

remembering routes on the city map of your battered brain

all chemtrails etched under streetlights that grew

feeling eons older-still too young.

time is compressed into long white tablets

sanitized and sticking in the throat to swallow with words once saved to say.

skipping a dosage then bracing against

all withering pangs

tracing the indents of un-wonder

the fading scars from when

gobs of ghosts were stuck to skin

of shadows become paranoid haunts

reverting speech of strangers into malevolent whispers

gnawing agony of drifting from IAM

the liar lands his sting

brains cold searing from the poison

of this world’s anti longing

thus reads the memorial

on a heart once gone astray

to keep me wary of new trappings

in the light of a new day

The Menaces of Suburbia

Around 10pm last night I was having a run down the street, which I always run on, parrallel to the train tracks. Directly to my right is the steep incline that descends to the tracks which I have affectionately christened “Gollum Ravine” (because I thought a Gollum was following me from the gnarled bushes one night, but that is the stuff of another story).

It was a warm night and enjoyably still. I was listening to some Matthew Good, in a serious trance, when something in my mind rattled. I do not know how else to explain it. A rattling premonition interrupted my thoughts and caused me to take off my headphones.

My senses sharpened and I instinctively peered down the steep, dark incline of the “Gollum Ravine” wondering when some desperate creature would spring out of the darkness and grab at my ankles.

Suddenly, before I could turn my head around, all the passengers in a passing SUV were loosing bloodcurling screams at me! A hellish symphony of female, male and goblin-esque  voices punctured the stillness of the evening. During the fraction of a second before their screams turned to laughter and they drove past,  my mind flashed through a hundred horrifying images and my heart gave a single bursting pulse. I had been the victim of a drive by screaming, and I was angry.

I briefly considered running until I found where the SUV was parked then employing my own scare tactics, but, I reasoned, I would probably lose a court battle against the yacht-riding frat boys.

I continued my run, thoroughly shaken, and with a new awareness of the menaces of suburbia. The barren branches of dark tree’s curled into the night sky, casting twisted shadows in the sickened yellow of a flickering streetlight.  I noticed a hooded figure further up the street, shrouded in shadows, waiting, as it seemed to my mind.

I crossed the road to get away from Gollum Ravine. Running past a hedge of tall bushes I saw, or imagined I saw, the dark silhouette of a dog following me from behind the hedge and emitting a low and steady growl. The night had filled with all the wrong possibilities- a single transformative moment had flicked the fear switch in my brain to on and opened my imagination up to sinister wavelengths.

When I was finnally out of earshot of any lurking Gollum’s I began to reflect on how dramatically the perceptions of my surroundings had changed. In these days of economic turmoil and institutional collapse many people are constantly tuning their mind radio’s into fear FM. This is a surefire way to limit your awareness, and by extension your responses, to only the wrong possibilities.

²²“The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light. ²³But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!”

Matthew 6:22-23 (New International Version)

Why U2 remains great. (a totally uncool and lengthy diatribe)

No Line On the Horizon is a real album.

It seems our favourite Irish lads have managed to resist entropy once again. With three years in the crucible of the studio they have still have found something to prove. U2 is opening up new ground in the world of rock myth, where, as the story goes (at least historically) you are supposed to die or peak by the age of 27.

Like all of U2’s best albums No Line on The Horizon contains an inner logic all it’s own. Lyric’s are cross referenced and symbols are echoed across the album’s eleven tracks, each adding a richer interpretative colour to the the theme of  “freedom from self”.

U2 will probably never again reach the heights of “All that You Can’t Leave Behind” (which is my favourite album-period.) but this is hardly a criticism.

So embarassingly earnest...and still awesome.

John Frusciante once described writing music as “building 5th dimensional homes for people to live in”. If you understand what that means, then like me, you will be very happy to have a sonic headspace to move into. This album is a compelling “5th dimensional creation” that has 3 movements, a clever thematic schema and an consistent atmospheric colour.

I like this album for the same reason I like the cover : restraint.

Moment of Surrender feels like mature U2. I didn’t care for it the first time I heard it, which, when we are dealing with slow burners (like most of U2’s best work), signals that it has potential to become a lasting favourite. It doesn’t hurt that Bono sings the hell out of this zen-like hymn, voice cracking like a ravaged soul over the triple meaning of the lyrics.

The goal, with this record, was to create Futuristic hymns- contemporary soul music or space blues grounded in gospel with grit. In this spirit all the instruments, including Bono’s ‘vox’ (which is, excepting ‘Boots’, more raw and soulful then he’s allowed himself to be this decade), are distilled to their bare essences.

None of this, though, get’s us past the embarassing fact that “Get On Your Boots” is just a steaming pile of awful. The lead single is the worst track on the album, not a bad bait and switch gimmick, but still unfortunate. The song suffers because of Bono’s weak attempt, throughout the verses, at a shitty vertigo-esque falsetto. “Let me in the sound” he pines annoyingly over the otherwise cool drum-driven bridge. Larry’s moment wrecked by Bono’s eagerness to fill every second with the sound of his voice. “Boots” is the sound of U2 grasping for relevance- and it is not pretty.

Still we are ready to forgive him, especially when the following track is the excellent “Stand Up Comedy”. “Comedy” is a tune which finds the Edge finally playing a Zeppelin-esque rock riff, laying down some funk for the verses and Bono delivering the sweet line “Stop helping God across the street like a little old lady!”.

Recently, the ubiquitous frontman has stated “In U2 we have a sense that music is a sacrament, that it is holy”. Some people catch a glimpse of U2 on an itunes advert and think “great- more aging sellouts”. So when Bono confesses, in reverence, to God “I was born to sing for you” in Magnificent, the line is maligned by critics, as a smarmy boast to U2’s audience.

If your not ‘in the know’ about U2’s primary operative mode, which is worship, then you will misinterpret the vertical direction of the lyrics.

What people don’t get about the wee Irish lad, is that his egomania is mostly an act, and besides, is readily diffused by a gutsy vulnerability and inherent uncool vibe. He is well aware of these facts, even stating on the album that  “the right to appear ridiculous is something I hold dear”.  Once you get past the media saturation you might see what Bob Dylan saw when he said “Bono has got the soul of an ancient poet and you have to be careful around him”.

"More Relevance!!!"

Universal intimacy, an ambitious oxymoron, has always been U2’s highest aspiration. They practically pioneered the emotional territory that has allowed the likes of Coldplay, Kings of Leon and Radiohead to exist. Many people are fond of saying ” I prefer the old U2, you know, Sunday Bloody Sunday”. This seems to be the popular consensus or at least the most ‘indie-credible’ answer.

If you ask me,  U2 is at the pinnacle of their career right now. Their last three albums have each made a real case for “best work yet”.

For those who distrust either massive popularity or earnest idealism- I feel your pain. Really, I hate the masses too, it is a huge blow to my *credibility* to admit that the world’s biggest band is my probably my favourite band (somehow I know this keeps me human).

The final song of the album is “Cedars of Lebanon” and the closing lines read:

“Choose your enemies carefully/ because they will define you/keep them interesting/because in some way’s they will mind you/Their not there in the beginning/ but when your story ends/ gonna last longer with you than your friends”

It’s politically charged statement from a song situated in war torn Lebanon but there’s more to it.  Most rock bands have by default, picked the “Establishment” (the Man, the System) as their enemy. Larry Mullen once said in an interview “We never saw the establishment as much of a threat, U2’s real enemies have always been internal. Things like complacency, hatred… things we all experience.”

And again with the touching Tony....

Guillermo Del Toro insisted that, in art,  “simplicity is the hardest and most admirable thing to pull off”. Creating recognizable universal archetypes, that do not descend into cliche, is indeed, the most difficult of accomplishments in music, film or story. What so often happens, when your not paying attention, that the same expert universal simplicity that no line on the horizon pulls off, can come across as trite-sentimental hash.

If there’s one thing U2 does better than almost any other band it’s this:  Non-Resolution. The Edge’s guitar playing is unique, in that, instead of satisfying or resolving the melodic expectations, his chord progressions only conjure up a sense of longing- creating these aching non-choruses.

“Breathe” does this wonderfully. It is a song about being free from consumerism, the self and gravity. “You’ve got nothing that I need…I can Breathe” raves Bono while The Edge stirs up that ethereal, painfully expectant sound.

(Larry and Adam are great on this album too but this is already far too long)

Penultimate Lyrics:

“I found Grace inside of sound/I found Grace and it’s all that I’ve found”

The Bruce Coburn-esque “Scream into the darkness/squeeze out sparks of light”

“I’ve been in every black hole/at the altar of a dark star/my bodies now a begging bowl/begging to get back to the rhythm of my heart/to the rhythm of my consciousness”