Comet Gain

I've started a lot of dead posts lately. One on harmonicas and their infinite uses, another on William Henry Pratt, otherwise known as Boris Karloff.

But kept running into dead ends. I felt like I was trying to affect something that I wasn't really feeling at the time. I researched Boris Karloff passionately on Sunday afternoon, but much of that passion (and the specifics that made that passion possible) have temporarily left. The harmonica bit felt too one-note, and I didn't really understand what my point was. Harmonicas are good? I think most people would agree with that.

During my glummery (invented word), I decided to pull out a few records that I haven't really listened to. One of those was Comet Gain's "Realistes." I bought this record on a whim, based both on the cool cover art and the idea of a patchquilt sort of indie-pop band; London guerillas with Rickenbackers.

I remember first listening to the album and thinking it was amateruish and forced. But tonight, something clicked. The lyrics and vocal mannerisms, which before I found cloyingly obvious, now seem charming and sweet. They are clearly in love with the Swingin' London sound, but also approach this era with a totally different, scrappy mindset. But what really hit me was this thought: "What right do I have to critique a band that is clearly in love with what it is doing?" They operate as a collective, have been a band for 17 years, and here I come along, some jerk from Georgia, thinking that I have the right to take a band's art and merely call it good or bad, filing it away for obscurity.

"Our mixtapes are memories for unseen histories," Comet Gain sing. This is the lyric that did me in. For me, every song that I have ever loved has a memory attached to it. Shared moments, intimate things. What Comet Gain embody best, for me at least, is the fun that a group of friends can have together. You put something together because you love it, and you let it be what it is without trying to gloss it up or make it more appealing to more people (There is, however, a difference between "glossing up" and "refining.").

I am aware that this post makes me seem a blaring sentamentalist. I cry in movies at the drop of the hat, and Kurt Vonnegut's short story "D.P." moves me terribly. I'm okay with that.

And for the three people who read this, I would love for you to post a song and a memory that is permantently attached to said song. Go!

Disdain, or "I don't care about your outlandish expectations of what constitutes a reasonable salary."

The epiphany is a fairly wonderful thing. I've been lucky enough to experience a few (of genuine stock, too) in my lifetime, and the paradigm shift they bring on is refreshing and freeing. But the more years I've accumulated, the more silly things I've become concerned about. I'll make a list of them.

1. Amplifiers. It's true, and it's downright goofy. My current amp, a Marshall JCM 800, is a wonderful tool, capable of a wide range of fairly cool sounds. But as I have become more and more aware of my musical stylings (barf), I second guess myself, as well as my amp. I start to think "but wait, this amp is for Slayer-tones and post-hardcore bands," becoming convinced that what I TRULY need is a nice clean amp, like a Fender Twin or a Vox. These are stupid concerns. Coming from a punk aesthetic (I know, I know), I shouldn't even be concerned over such priveleged bullshit. I thought to myself "Heath, you should fuck off for getting so wrapped up in such nonsense. People are killing each other for water in Somalia. Shut the fuck up about your amp already."

All of the artists I have loved have simply put their heads down and played their music. I have doubts that they were really worried about the quality of their speakers or string gauges.

2. Being in a band. I've always just wanted to play music with people, put out records, design sleeves, tour in a van. Playing with sympathetic folks is one of the great pleasures of life, and I've become downright obsessed with the notion. I moved to Athens to see this idea to fruition, and those who know me well know how that turned out. I learned that when you don't have anyone around you who cares about you, it's hard to care about music. Friends are way, way, way more important than that. It doesn't really matter, the band thing. As long as I can play my own tunes in my bedroom or for friends, I think I'll be okay.

There are no doubt more unimportant obsessions that I could expound on, but I've sort of run out of steam for the moment. If you read the title, you will notice that this little piece was intended to have a much angrier tone. Hearing about C.E.O's and C.F.O's who think that a million dollars a year isn't enough right before a story on the Somalian drought makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me long for a guillotine and an angry mob. But in the midst of my anger, I began to think about all the nonsense that I concern myself with, and I felt it more honest to lay down my own sins than indict others. If I appear shallow or muddled, forgive me, but the last thing I want to become is a judge-penitent.