The school is not far from our new house. Maybe one mile away, at most. But now that Luca rides independently, the 2-seat trailer has become more of a hindrance than anything else. So every morning Dante sits on my bike instead, feet resting on the lock holder, one hand on my shoulder and the other holding my backpack, and I half-jog/half-walk alongside Luca. Less than 15 minutes after, we are at school, just in time for the line-up.

What happens during those 15 minutes is, of course, the most rewarding reason to get up every morning. We’ve been closely monitoring the leaves growing on the trees, the blossoms change into full-blown flowers, each morning scent greeting us at precisely the same spot on our itinerary, only more intense each day.
We also talk, about everything and anything: which super-hero we’d rather be, rock band elimination contests, but also more carefully considered conversations about society, acceptance, what it means to be a good person.

The kids are growing up.

Of course, kids are kids. And one morning, Dante had a kid sort of idea, you know, the kind of idea that seems so natural that you don’t even think about questioning it.
What if Tom Waits sang When I’m 64? And how would that sound?
In the mind of an almost 5-year-old, it would sound like this:

I’m not sure what passers-by or other cyclists were making of his impersonations, but this is what happens when I sit Dante on my bicycle.

————

Luca, on the other hand, has almost finished his first year at the Conservatory. Learning an instrument happens on an exponential curve, and once you unlock that part of the brain that is able to make sense of what is going on between notes, what is written on the score and what your hands are supposed to play, there is very little stopping you.
And he’s steadily getting to that point. But most importantly, he’s having fun in the process.
He had his second recital yesterday. A bit of a marathon, really, and unfortunately he wasn’t among the first batch of children. So by the time his year group was up, most children had that I-need-my-nap expression.
Or maybe it’s just his game face…

—————–

I’m turning 35 tomorrow.
It’s one of those halfway numbers.
My Dad was 35 when his father passed away.
I lost a grand-Aunt over the weekend, and my Grandmother is not doing that great.
So, yes, this birthday really feels like the end of a first half of sorts.
But looking at these 2 little big guys, I know what happens next will be all right still.

First post of the year and we’re already into Spring. I could blame it on a few things, all of which are true, and mostly justified:
- moving house
- unpacking
- setting up a new studio space
- hibernating
- the proverbial musician’s block

(and that’s all a work in progress, as with most things)

Or maybe I just watched The Wire in its entirety over the winter, and getting involved in this narrative in such an intimate and consistent manner is bound to leave you shaken for a while. And inspired at the same time.

If you haven’t seen The Wire, you could count yourselves lucky that there is a modern masterpiece ready for you to explore, and I feel happy for you. I know that’s how I would feel right now if I were to watch it again. If you have seen the show then you probably know what I mean.
Either way, there is a lot I would like to write about it, some of which has been written already, and is available here for example.

So for starters I thought I’d record a version of the title song, the Tom Waits classic Way Down In The Hole as a reflection of how I felt about my two favourite characters, Bunny Colvin and Omar Little. They’ve always struck me as some of the most honest and righteous characters throughout their respective narrative arcs, despite the moral ambiguity they both displayed. But as a result of their integrity, and their considered refusal to abide by the rules of the game, they’ve always felt alone, and lonely.
Not sure whether you can hear that in this cover, but that’s what I had in mind at least…

I think this column in the New Yorker brilliantly sums up the way I feel about lists and the simple fact that it has become impossible to listen to all the music the year has to offer. Do we go for the obvious choices? Do we follow the trends? Do we stick to our favourites or jump onto the new sensation bandwagons?
I’m not here to give any answer to any of these questions.
There’s a lot of music I’ve disliked this year, and there’s quite a bit of music I’ve really, really liked, too.
The following are the 10 albums that have made me the happiest about taking my bike and hitting the record stores.

——–

Battles – Gloss Drop

Superbands are, by definition, a sum of their parts, for better or for worse. What makes a superband work is the concentration of its individual voices into a cohesive whole, when you stop thinking about the different players but rather focus on their concerted effort as their new means of expression. And when you talk about Battles, the result is distinctively idiosyncratic: a little Helmet, a little Don Caballero, a little Bartok, a lot of Tom and Jerry. At least, that was Mirrored, and Tyondai Braxton’s playful use of samples, vocal lines, vocoders and warped autotune presets.
With Braxton gone, Williams, Konopka and Stanier had to come up with a new formula. With a debut album like Mirrored, there is no obvious next step: reproducing its sound would be out of the question, and going back to the EP templates would feel like a step back. And, miraculously, Gloss Drop is its own thing, a Braxton-less Battles that doesn’t feel like something is missing. Williams clearly steps forward in the record, as the live performances suggest, but the rhythm section feels also more present, more instinctual, and definitely more dance-oriented. The interplay between the core members feels more organic on tracks like “futura” or “wall street”, and when they let guests fill in as vocalists, the result is closer to a straight bona-fide Battles pop song than ever before (if you have not seen the Gary Numan cameo in My Machines, you’re missing out on one of the great videos of the year, too.)
With Gloss Drop Battles find a new breath and prove that they are as relevant and vital as ever.

——–

Elbow – Build A Rocket Boys!

I’ve learnt to lower my expectations this year. Bands that I’ve loved came out of hiding with diminishing returns, more often than not. But that’s the thing about relationships: sometimes you just drift apart, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And that’s the thing about expectations, too: never place them too high, or let anyone place them too high for you.
Fortunately for Elbow, the press never seemed to want to mythologize them more than they needed, at least outside of England. In fact, at this point they are becoming almost criminally underrated.
None of their releases are hailed as “events”, they don’t come with elaborate multimedia adventures. They come with great songs, though. I’m not sure Elbow ever felt the need to radically reinvent themselves, and I don’t think they would have to anyway. Their formula might not be groundbreaking, but their honesty as songwriters and musicians sets them apart from many of their peers, younger or not. Their music feels lived in, and sometimes that’s all you need.
Because I’ve always felt more comfortable in my worn-out shirt than in the emperor’s new clothes.

——–

Feist – Metals

I don’t mean to praise a record by criticizing another, but in a year marked by a certain disappointment with comeback albums, listening to Metals comes as a relief. While it is a departure from her breakthrough hit The Reminder, Feist’s new record still largely focuses on her most marketable gift. As far as I’m concerned, Feist has no rivals as a vocalist: honey-tinged rather than crystal clear, powerful but not owerpowering. It’s like Brandy Alexander in a song.
The arrangements, the production, and the careful mixing highlight the singer’s voice in ways that are reminiscent of Joni Mitchell’s 1970s period: she is not above the rest, but every other instrument complements her singing.
The recording itself is remarkable: dynamic, sparse yet spacious, and more restrained than its predecessor. This truly is an album to savour at night, on a good stereo with adequate speakers.
Not as obviously iPod-friendly, Metals ultimately rewards the listener for its cohesion and its subtle arrangements, and its overall darker tone doesn’t diminish its staying power. Quite the contrary.
Let’s hope we won’t have to wait another 4 years next time.

——–

Ben Frost/Daniel Bjarnason – Solaris

Readers of this blog will already know about my obsession with Ben Frost, and with Bedroom Community in general. As a label the Iceland-based collective has been delivering one stellar release after another, from neo-classical compositions to intriguing explorations of American Folk music to, well, Ben Frost.
Few artists in recent years have had such a powerful impact on how I feel about music, and what makes music. His visceral approach to sound manipulation, guitar textures and restrained instrumentation have an enormous visual potential without being overtly cinematic. and this is why Solaris works so well.
Of course it’s not just Frost’s doing. The orchestral arrangements and prepared piano parts are the unmistakable touches of Bjarnason, and both artists meet at the crossroad as it were, to re-create a soundtrack to one of the most enigmatic science fiction movies ever directed. But, as is the case for all great soundtracks, they exist on their own right. Sure, they are enhanced by the visual medium, but listening to them separately creates its own particular experience. Here, everything moves at a glacial pace, but the subtle changes and repetitions and inner motifs hint at the inner drama unfolding: drops of treated piano, plaintive strings, distant hums and sheets of white noise. And by the time the last chords ebb away, you realize how affecting the process has been without resorting to cheaper, Hollywood-style tricks.
If you ever wondered how lonely interstellar space travel can be, this record would be an accurate description. It would sound like this, and it would feel like winter.

——–

Mastodon – The Hunter

I’m not a metal purist. I’m not even that much into metal. But I love every single Mastodon album, from the early growling releases to the ambitious prog-driven Magnum Opus Crack The Skye. There is just so much raw energy, so much inventiveness in the rhythm structures of their songs. Of course, there’s enough riffage to choke a horse, but the way I see it, Mastodon truly shines thanks to Brann Dailor.
Too many mainstream bands play it straight to the point of boredom, or, to the opposite end of the spectrum, their use of odd time signatures feels so forced and contrived that you can’t help noticing they’re just trying too hard. But Dailor’s drumming is so effective that all his efforts seem effortless, and this has always been the strength and the backbone of Mastodon.
Of course, you can’t have a great album without great songs, and even though I can’t say The Hunter is the band at the height of their powers, as a mainstream heavy rock album it is the best of 2011. Never mind what the purists say: it isn’t metal, it isn’t pop, it isn’t crossover. It is bloody good fun, though. And in a musical decade that is distinguishing itself by the abysmal quality of its mainstream releases, The Hunter feels like a miracle.
Now, Josh Homme, hurry up and top this soon, yes?

——–

Mogwai – Hardcore Will Never Die But You Will

Ah, faith. Just when you think it’s over for good, the musical gods send you a reminder of their all-power.
I have to admit, I was disappointed by Mr Beast and the Hawk is Howling. The records seemed almost too loud for no real purpose and lost a lot of the dynamic outbursts that had cemented Mogwai among the luminaries of post-rock. Or maybe post-rock could only go so far without some game-changing retooling? And what is still considered post-rock, anyway?
Hardcore doesn’t try to answer the question. Instead, it takes the better elements of the previous recent albums and crystallizes them with more precise songwriting, more effective instrumentation and a heightened sense of purpose. The result is a very strong collection of tunes, instrumental or otherwise. “Rano Pano” and “You’re Lionel Richie” probably deserve spots in an all-career high, which is not a small feat considering the band’s longevity at this point. And if I have to sit through autotuned vocals, at least let Mogwai completely mess them up to show me how ridiculous a human can sound with excessive tweaking.
I wasn’t hoping for much, and I was thankfully proven wrong. Expectations, once again…

——–

Russian Circles – Empros

I was wondering where Russian Circles would go after Geneva: the songs had taken an expansive, mellower turn, and the inclusion of strings and horns gave the album its poised elegance. In short, Geneva had opened up new possibilities for the trio. Where they would decide to go could be anybody’s guess.
I guess I didn’t see Empros coming then. Not that it departs radically from the Russian Circles trademark sound (layered bass-heavy riffs, ingenious guitar looping, relentlessly inventive drumming), but it distills all these elements into perfect concoctions. Not a note is wasted, not a moment is lost. Every track is perfectly composed and nuanced, melodic but never too obvious. The heaviness of the record doesn’t come out as forced, but is actually necessary to reveal its inherent beauty.
Russian Circles have matured so much as a band that the interplay between them borders on the telepathic, something that becomes even more apparent when you see them live. Empros has a sense of direction and purpose that surpasses its predecessors, and sets the trio apart in their field.
I’ve probably listened to Empros more often than any other record since it came out, and every time my only complaint is that it almost feels too short.
But then I hit repeat, and the problem is solved.

——–

Colin Stetson – New History Warfare Volume II: Judges

I think there has been a “before/after” type of paradigm shift about Colin Stetson. And I’m not sure what else I can add to what I previously wrote here.
Except that I had written that blog before seeing him live, and nothing prepares you to that experience.
This is what music should be all about: total dedication to an idea, an instrument, a singular approach to making new forms with old things.
Without a doubt my favourite record of the year.

——–

Tom Waits – Bad As Me

Sometimes I wonder how to write about Tom Waits without resorting to the same old cliches: the bourbon-soaked voice, the bric-a-brac arrangements, the Brecht-meets-Bauhaus aesthetic… and then I realise that writing about Tom Waits is pointless. Because the cliches write themselves, the imagery is so idiosyncratic that it creates its own legend. And each release adds a facet to Tom Waits’s mythology.
In Bad as Me, it’s Elvis, for example, in “get lost”. Try not to shake your hips like it’s still 1957.
The first collection of originals since 2004’s Real Gone, Bad as Me is also an ideal entry point to discover Waits’s wonderful world: beautifully recorded, the album has more variety and dynamics than his work in the past decade, and even sounds as instantly accessible as any Tom Waits album could ever be since Rain Dogs .
Some artists should know when to call it quits before they dilute their work with unnecessary diversions. Others only get better, and more relevant. Tom Waits only becomes more Tom Waits. And I will always be thankful for having him.
This is a cliche, but it’s the only thing that’s true.

——–

Wilco – The Whole Love

Expectations, once again. I don’t think Wilco ever disappointed me as a music lover. I might not like all their albums as much, but there isn’t a single record in their discography that I never listen to. And The Whole Love seems to be getting really close to Yankee Foxtrot Hotel and Summerteeth in my personal favourites.
The new album finds the band in superlative form: from Glenn Kotche’s peerless drumming to Nels Cline’s spidery guitar lines, each song is beautifully crafted, wonderfully recorded, and always genuinely heartfelt. Jeff Tweedy has always had a way with the poetry of simple images, and The Whole Love is no exception: listen to “Rising red lung” or “one Sunday morning” for an example of honest-to-goodness songwriting.
At this point in their career, Wilco could do anything. They have been experimental, they have delved deeply into Americana, and they have done all this with a sense of wonder and excitement that has always prevented them from becoming too pretentious or self-indulgent. And as a listener, it is immensely rewarding to listen to an album of such levels of musicianship.
The Whole Love is not the best album in this list, but it is the most accomplished.
Then again, I would expect nothing less from Wilco…

——–
Bring it on, 2012!

Day 22

Day 23

Day 30

Christmas. Yes, with more than a month to go still.

To me, the unconscious marker between the end of Autumn and the beginning of Winter is a record, and a time of day. Have you listened to By The Throat on a cold clear night, walking alone on deserted streets? The Annex is a perfect neighbourhood for this experience: old detached houses, no traffic after 7PM, and very sparse street lighting. Add to this a temperature approaching freezing point and you have your first winter night, ladies and gentlemen. And its most fitting soundtrack. No matter how many times you listen to Ben Frost’s music, it still hits you the same way.

Anyway, Movember… this is the week when the moustache finally came out. And suddenly I look like I’m about 13 again…
More seriously though, if you feel like contributing, this is where you can donate
Thank you!

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Anyway, back to Movember… there are definitely varying degrees of facial success out there, to which I must sadly report that I wouldn’t really be able to produce a handlebar by month’s end…
Still, there are still 2 weeks to participate, and 2 weeks to donate. You can do so here: www.mobro.co/pepecrudo

And this is what week 2 looked like.

—————-

Day 8

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Day 13

Day 14

Or I could start a weekly photo diary of my first Movember.

Maybe it was the tumor they took out over the summer. Sure, it’s the most benign form of tumor I could possibly have, but it just plants the possibility in your thoughts that one day it might not be.

Cancer seems to be more present in our conversations, too. People we know, or friends of people we know are currently going through the ordeal I remember all too well, when my grandfather fought for years against thyroid and lung cancers. He had never smoked a cigarette in all his life, just happened to work in a coal mine.

So yes, Movember. Probably the only month of the year when it’s ok to look like a 1970s weather forecast announcer.

You can visit my Movember page, and make donations, right here: mobro.co/pepecrudo

Here’s what Week One has yielded so far. And one important lesson: my facial hair does not grow very fast.

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Week 2 is already showing improvement. Currently i’m enjoying the Walter White, or Heisenberg, as I like to call it. But it won’t stop there…

Those are some of the most beautiful days you could ever live.

10 years ago, we woke up in our apartment. Our home. We had decided to move in together over the summer that we had spent apart, and were getting accustomed with the familiarity that comes with it: the imprints of our heads on the pillows, the arrangement of the toothbrushes, the rituals of a shared breakfast. This was the first attempt at domesticity for the two of us, and we were falling in love with the 200 year-old house, its creaking floorboard and large, bright windows.

I had spent the summer worrying that I wouldn’t have been able to return to the States after my one-year (read: non-renewable) contract at Brown. My university clearly wanted me back, yet I wasn’t sure that Lyon was where I wanted to be anymore. But luck has its own ways and sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and all of a sudden things were looking good. I was going to start teaching my own Italian course in Roger Williams University, in a small campus by the water on the way to Bristol.
I remember the first time I took the RIPTA bus to meet the Chair of the department. Trees and water everywhere, old wooden houses and open lawns, people greeting you as you pass them by: Southern New England at its most pleasant and refined.

It was going to be a good year.

We woke up early. The ivy on the window turned our bedroom into a shadow play, golden and green and amber. And blue, blue everywhere: the late Summer sky, the Providence River, the Atlantic. I remember wondering how much blue it would take to ever get tired of it. That Tuesday morning really was magnificent.

And then it happened.

It took a while to make sense of it all. If at all.
A very good friend of ours from NYU stayed at our place for a while. We talked about many things, but not that. Not then. And still our silences would fill the gaps we knew we feared. Life as we knew it had changed. Everything did.
And yet people have to move on, as impossibly painful as it may seem.
And yet people need familiarity. People want normalcy.

For us, it was a cat.

We named our first cat Horatio. Hamlet’s most loyal friend, his survivor and witness.
Horatio was born on the week of 9/11, and welcoming him into our lives seemed to be the one thing that made sense. There was nothing ideological, nothing political: just a black and white kitten, an old house and a creaky floorboard under his tiny paws.

And hope.

To be continued soon

——————–

For better audio quality:
One Year (September is coming soon) by amberhaze

A lot of my friends in Singapore went to Baybeats over the weekend. From what I could see, it looked like a good edition, wide-ranging and eclectic. I’m not always a fan of all the bands selected but that’s the point: Baybeats caters to anyone who has a craving for fresh local music in Southeast Asia. And getting to play this festival is one of the highlights of any musician in Singapore.
I was thinking about my Baybeats experience over the weekend, too. 3 years ago my grandmother passed away, only a few weeks before the festival. It had all been too sudden for me to fly back and attend the funeral, and although we did go see her one last time a couple months earlier, I haven’t been back to Messina since. I suppose I need this closure once and for all.
People will tell you it’s a relief sometimes. When you get worse, when you’re in pain, when it just gets too much. And they are right. It still doesn’t take away the fact that you miss the people you love, you miss them terribly.

Shortly after Nonna Antonia’s passing, one of my best and oldest friends wrote to us. His father had been diagnosed with a virulent form of pancreatic cancer. It had already started spreading to the liver. What do you say in this situation? How are you supposed to reassure your friend when you both know that the chances for remission are close to non-existent?
So it was just a matter of months before we received that other email. That other phone call. They always take you by surprise, but you know they’ll keep coming.

——————

The day after my last Baybeats show I went to the hospital for an operation on my spine. Slipped disc. L5 S1, a classic. Not life-threatening stuff, of course, but still considered major surgery. Recovery was longer than expected, but in the month I spent in bed I composed the bulk of my first album on the laptop. Everyday I would arrange bits and pieces, create loops and sounds for future reference. I figured lower body mobility had nothing to do with that, so I trudged along.

Something grew in my right ring-finger over the past year. I’ve had cysts before, always had them removed. They didn’t really get the whole cyst out the first time, so it grew back at exactly the same place. So I went again, and they took out more. And it went away. There is a slight indentation where the cyst used to be, but it’s in the small of my back, and it doesn’t really bother me at all.
But the finger? for a musician? The problem with leaving that cyst alone is that it will grow too much for a very tight area. The problem with excision is that you will incur nerve damage.
I got that cyst taken out last month. Turns out it was a tumor. They call it Giant Cell Tumor, and on my file it is conveniently abbreviated, GCT. Luckily, this is the second most common type of tumors, and completely benign. But the doctors explained that it can recur, and considering my age group, it probably will, at some point.
No one likes to hear the word tumor. Of course, tumor is not cancer, and I am very fortunate that it is what it is. Still, it’s semantics I suppose, and your brain can’t help but process things a little too much sometimes. What if it were cancer, at some point? What if those chances, those odds, are stacked against you?

——————

Jack Layton wrote this letter over the weekend. That kind of letter. Read it. And feel inspired by how much more you can do, by how much more there is to do. Jack Layton belongs to this almost too-rare category of politicians whose sense of decency and duty motivated their whole career as civil servants. Civil servants. He loved Toronto, and he loved the Toronto that I have fallen in love with in the past year. And judging from the outpouring of tweets and online messages, this is so far the most significant single event of the year here. Res Pubblica. When was the last time a politician received so much love and respect?
I want to be in the world Layton writes about. I want my children to keep building it after we’re gone.

We only have one shot at this. Better make it count.