The first day of my vacation that I haven’t actually gone to work! Instead, I … worked at home! Listening through a handful of older CDs, I was reminded of the review I’d written a while ago for the defunct Synergy Magazine. Yes, it is a cheap Calvino ripoff. I’m okay with that.<\/p>\n
Of Montreal
\nSatanic Panic in the Attic
\nPolyvinyl
\nBy Antero Garcia<\/p>\n
You\u2019ve just gotten back from the store, anxious to put in the record you\u2019ve just bought, giddy and without any concerns other than this troubling plastic wrapper and sticker on the spine of the jewel case. Why do they make these things so difficult, you mutter to yourself.\u00a0 You\u2019ve heard good things about this new Of Montreal CD, and that the group recently reissued some of it\u2019s older catalog, you said to yourself, why not? You\u2019ve been looking for a change, and the group is (somehow, but you\u2019re not exactly sure how) connected to bands like Neutral Milk Hotel, Elf Power, Olivia Tremor Control\u2026 something about 6 Elephants or something, but the lip piercing and Yo La Tengo 1994 tour t-shirt of the salesman at the record store told you that you we\u2019re an idiot if you had to ask. You make your purchase and find yourself in the quandary you are currently in, fighting with plastic to open up and hear the magic The intricate art promises psychedelia. Something warm, comforting and (hold the applause please) \u201cenlightening.\u201d<\/p>\n
But when the CD is finally wrenched from its case and cradled in the player, the sound the speakers coo is not sunny. It\u2019s icy, almost insincere. It\u2019s synthesizers it feels like unfriendly disco and this Rundgren-esque voice is saying something about \u201cpoppet,\u201d that stupid phrase brits use endearingly. You hate it. It\u2019s inane and elementary and you\u2019re impatient for the record to proceed, move on from this unfortunate mishap. You admit that in another setting, this would be something you could possibly<\/em> see yourself enjoying. You think all of this and the song feels too long. It won\u2019t end and you resort to thinking ill thoughts toward the CD, another wasted purchase.<\/p>\n You check the CD player and you\u2019ve somehow bled into the second track, the world is different now, somehow change yet suggesting an immutability a permanence. Yeah, this is more like it. This is something you\u2019d like to listen to, now we\u2019re talking. This is the pop playground you believed always existed, what Of Montreal would always sound like\u2026 This is pure pop bliss, the kind of verse and delivery you could \u2013 and want to \u2013 listen to all day. Goddamn, listen to that! You want it to never stop. And all too suddenly, and exactly when, in your mind, you uttered that last syllable, \u201cstop,\u201d it falls dead, a deflated balloon animal, lampooning all you ever wanted in music. You curse yourself for even thinking, \u201cstop,\u201d for even mentioning the idea to whatever deity that is pulling the levers behind this album. There must be some mistake, there could be a defect or – \u2026 – no, you check the CD player, track two is still ticking through but now it\u2019s all weird noodling, a completely different song in the same track. It\u2019s a so-so song, but you sure wish you could go back to the one that was there a moment ago. Why can\u2019t you hold onto a good thing when you find it? C\u2019est La Vie, you reassure yourself, and continue to work your way through the sloppy mess of an album this is turning out to be.<\/p>\n For a while nothing is turning out any better. One moment it\u2019s absolute brilliance, only to be discarded like a worthless, unwanted trinket. Listen to that \u201cClimb the Ladder\u201d song! You want it to last, you love it, maybe it\u2019s even better than that song that started track two \u2013 you\u2019re not sure, so much has happened since then, so many songs come and gone.<\/p>\n And it\u2019s all moving too fast for you. So many great ideas are whizzing by and recirculating. The transcircularities of harmony and dissonance lunging \u2013 no, nagging \u2013 in your ears. Two divorced parents pulling you in opposite directions.<\/p>\n You scream stop and this time it doesn\u2019t happen. The Satanic Panic has taken hold of you, and all you want is to go back\u2026. You want the kind of CD that has been lining your shelves for years. 12 songs played straight, some pretty good, some you always skip. You wish critics didn\u2019t so easily dupe you, and you wish this CD wasn\u2019t so \u2026 so \u2026 different, so schizophrenic, so manic in execution.<\/p>\n There are only a couple of tracks left. You play with the idea of turning it off and catching up on the latest TV game show, but you decide to wait out the auditory pestilence that plagues your stereo. The music doesn\u2019t change, yet there\u2019s something different. Some sort of sense of puzzle pieces coming together, as if each diffracted moment of the record is some part of the larger picture. Perhaps.<\/p>\n Finally, you arrive at an end: a realization that the chase<\/em> is what you wanted all along, not actually arriving at the song. You have ventured far, several lifetimes at least, have become wiser by your journey\u2019s course, and you realize now that it was the sites along the way \u2013 those momentary glimpses \u2013 that were what you were reaching for. Nothing more than fleeting beauty, just a half second of it to change your life.<\/p>\n Love is a pursuit. Once you are nestled close enough to grasp it, love is banal. You close your eyes. You\u2019ll press play again in the morning. You smile, satisfied, and wonder where you\u2019ll wander tomorrow.<\/p>\nTell people this is awesome:<\/h3>