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sinceileftyoublog · 2 months ago

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Youth Lagoon Live Preview: 5/7, Outset, Chicago

Photo by Tyler T Williams

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Two years ago, Youth Lagoon returned with Heaven Is a Junkyard, Trevor Powers staring at a tumultuous period of his life from the other side. Thankfully, the comeback album--his first in 8 years--opened the floodgates of ideas. Powers found himself searching for an old harmonica that belonged to his grandmother and instead discovered a deluge of home videos, which proved not just creative fodder for his new album Rarely Do I Dream (Fat Possum) but source material. Powers started recording the tapes and ended up sampling them in his new songs, seeped in a distant past that he felt a freedom to rearrange. As a result, Rarely Do I Dream is the most expansive-sounding, genre-averse Youth Lagoon record yet. More impressively, it contains some of Powers' most clever storytelling.

Photo by Tyler T Williams

Throughout Rarely Do I Dream, it isn't so much what videos Powers samples, and the content therein, as much as how he fuses them with the instrumentation. They arrive with gentle piano on "Neighborhood Scene", as he eases us into the album's sonic world. "Gumshoe (Dracula From Arkansas)" is an exercise in contrast--between songwriting and field recording, yes, but also between plucked acoustic and bluesy electric guitar, between brutality and innocence. "We've been up in the tree, climbed down by the water," Powers sings, on the very same song in which he declares, "The summer taught me that life's a baseball bat to the jaw." On "My Beautiful Girl", the home recordings return the record to a sense of reality, rare quiet after the cacophony of "Perfect World". The only song in which Powers truly lets the videos do the talking is on the otherwise instrumental "Home Movies (1989-1993)". Still, it's the sound of tapes ejected and a new one put in that drives the track's cinematic feel.

Photo by Tyler T Williams

That Powers wrote Rarely Do I Dream on guitar instead of piano perhaps helped him further differentiate from the early 2010s Youth Lagoon sound for which he became known. Heaven Is a Junkyard sported tactile loops and handclaps but was subdued. Rarely Do I Dream, on the other hand, combines the epic arrangements of his back catalog with a full palate emphasizing the abstract timbres of synthesizer, drum programming, electric guitar, lap steel, and viola. You can dance to the propulsive, borderline funky drum beat of opener "Neighborhood Scene", or the distorted synth bass of the at-times-grey-hued, other-times-garbled "Speed Freak". Yet, Powers toys with your expectations, bringing even the most skyward club songs back to earth. "Perfect World" starts with blipping arpeggios before being slowed down by its drums and a shoegaze chorus. "Canary"'s tambourine-imbued four-on-the-floor thump, replete with syncopated vocal (or vocal-like) samples, wobbles to the finish line as a rock song, led by Stewart Cole's horns and Gabe Noel's bass.

Photo by Tyler T Williams

Powers has always been an empathetic lyricist above all, especially when illustrating the bleakness surrounding him. But the words on Rarely Do I Dream are more poetic and all-encompassing than ever. I don't recall any previous Youth Lagoon records that featured individual couplets or verses that could make you laugh, ponder, or cry as much as on Rarely Do I Dream. "All the Camels on the rug / A smoker's River Nile," he winks on "Lucy Takes a Picture". "A couple vampires looking strung out," Powers sings on "Canary", a line you initially think is fantastical until he clarifies, "Halloween and homemade alcohol." The user on "Perfect World" shakes "like an extra on opening night," prior to a nerve-wracking drug deal in a stark border town--or is it withdrawal? And then there's "My Beautiful Girl", which paints a scene straight out of a Coen Brothers film, where an addict stores their pills at the bottom of the sandals of "a dollar store, rubber Jesus on the mantle," before Powers delivers the devastating kicker: "Your mama screamed when you thought she couldn't scream more / Your daddy's deaf, so he never heard the screen door." That the violence is presumed rather than detailed makes it powerful.

Photo by Tyler T Williams

Tonight, Youth Lagoon plays Outset. If the minimalism of Powers' older material gave space for him to expand upon his sound live, how will he capture the spirit of a bigger album on stage? In any case, expect to hear a mix of Rarely Do I Dream and his past albums. Vancouver singer-songwriter Kaleah Lee opens. The show is all ages and begins at 6:30 P.M. Tickets still available at time of publication.

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#live picks #youth lagoon #outset #fat possum #kaleah lee #rarely do i dream #tyler t williams #heaven is a junkyard #trevor powers #fat possum records #stewart cole #gabe noel #coen brothers

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hitlikehammers · 5 months ago

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The One Where Wayne Munson KNOWS BETTER Than to Lend Air to IDLE GOSSIP

(and does it anyway on accident and ends up thinking his 💕boy's boy💕 might be ✖️stepping out) ——(1/3)

Wayne Munson’s lived his life mostly free from the hubbub of small town gossip. Some was unavoidable in his tiny holler as a boy; more was part and parcel to the service, and plain keeping half-sane in war—anything for a distraction. After all that though, Wayne’d had more’n his fill of even a teaspoon of hearsay, and compared to where he came from? Hawkins, Indiana was small potatoes for keepin�� his nose clear out of it.

Which is all to say he don’t mean to collect any of the latest scuttlebutt on his way just to town after he gets off his shift with the sun barely a glimmer, just past 5 for Leah’s to be open for a better cup-o-joe than the sludge he gets on the floor. All he wants is a hot nightcap because he knows damn well his boy didn’t pick up more grounds before Melvald’s closed last night, and Wayne doesn’t want to see his bed until he’s had a full mug of fair-to-middling coffee.

And honest: he don’t think that’s more than he’s earned to ask.

But it is more than he bargained for signing’ up to, when he sees the only other people in the diner at this hour on a Saturday.

Because the only other people are a girl he don’t know, though he can’t see her real well from the back, which only really means he sees her coffee date full-on and much too well in exchange because they’re leaned in and they’re being all touchy across the table, voices low but not too low—he don’t think they even noticed him come in, let alone come to wait close enough to hear ‘em while he insists on saving the lovely Leah herself the trip to a table when he can damn well carry his own drink, thanks kindly.

“You’re gonna have a coronary if you keep hiding this.”

The girl sounds…she sounds the way Wayne remembers his Mamaw sounding when she was about to hit his Grampy up the head over some harebrained such-and-such. Exasperated, but all from a deep well of unshakable loving.

Which is what perks up Wayne’s attention, and then churns his insides quick right-next, because—

Well. The boy this young lady’s being all over-fond at for his antics is Steve Harrington.

Who, for all that Wayne understands, is meant to be his boy’s boy.

“No, no,” Steve’s shaking his head, tone bowstring-taut; “I’m gonna tell him.” Kid sounds resolved for all of half-a-second before he’s groaning, running hands over his face: “Or, I mean—”

The thunk of the boy’s head to the tabletop clatters the cutlery, and if Wayne weren’t already clued into their conversation, he’d be wholly absolved for dropping eaves given how the noise echoes through the mostly-empty establishment bar-to-door.

“Dingus,” the girl says, and it drips with concern, with affection, with a deep choler that, again, sings loud of married-couple.

Which twists Wayne’s guts all the more to hear.

Because she’s talking to Wayne’s boy’s boy.

“I’m gonna, I promise,” Steve sounds not unlike a man on his way to the gallows, even more when he sighs deep as anything and traces out his lips with his fingers, hands shaky even out the corner of Wayne’s eye for a distance as he hisses low:

“Fuck.”

And Wayne, see, he don’t like borrowing trouble. He meant it about keeping his nose clean of the gossip and the hearsay. So he makes sure he reminds himself good in his own head that he don’t know the facts here, and jumpin’ to conclusions don’t do no favors to nobody.

It don’t do nothing for the way that what he does know, what he sees and hears with his own god-given senses in the now, don’t add up too kindly for the Harrington boy.

Not least because it seems to be adding up poor indeed for Wayne’s boy.

“Do you think he’ll—”

“Steve,” the girl’s voice goes softer, but also frantic almost, as Wayne sees her reach across the way and gather Steve’s hands with a familiarity to the motion that wouldn’t make sense unless…

Unless they’re something special to each other.

Wayne’s watched Eddie reach out for Steve that way. He’s watch Steve do the same. So it…it just don’t make sense—

“You’re shaking,” the girl says, all kinda pitiful, and Wayne’d seen it before, but now he chances a look again and: oh.

Boy’s a leaf in a cyclone.

“It’s a big deal,” Steve rasps out near under Wayne’s ability to hear it.

But he does hear it.

“You need to just lay it out,” the girl tells him, earnest now and more of that than any irritation, any frustration put-upon or otherwise; “be up front with him.”

And it ain’t fair, yet, even if all the signs are pointing that direction; but Wayne likes Steve. He doesn’t want to think the worst of him. And he doesn’t, really, in his heart, think Steve could do or be the worst, from all he’s learned and seen—Wayne’d had uncharitable thoughts about it he kid, before he knew better, based on hearsay which one more time, he don’t countenance as a rule, and he’d been taught better and quick from the second he saw Steve at his nephew’s bedside, and heard the only thing he’s proud and happy to have dropped in upon uninvited:

You nearly fucking died yourself dragging him out, Steve, what the hell—

That Henderson squirt, scolding Steve something fierce.

So Wayne reminds himself this boy loved his boy enough to risk himself to bring Eddie home. Before they were anything to one another. And Wayne knows damn well they’re both something to each other, now. It don’t make sense that Steve wants to…be up front about a notion with Eddie that could hurt.

But then: care can look a lot of different ways, and can change over time. Ain’t nobody to fault for that. And much as Wayne can’t quite believe the Steve he’s gotten to know these past many-months could swallow hurting his Eddie…

Wayne’s been proven incorrect about people more than enough in his life to know better than to think it’s impossible to be wrong about a man’s heart.

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over fucking fantastic,” Steve’s huffing, rolling his eyes—apparently he don’t want to be up front with the person they’re talking about. Wayne tries to remind himself that they’ve not flat out said it’s Eddie yet. Wayne shouldn’t go making assumptions.

“Why not?” the girl’s pressing him. “Be honest, with him,” then her tone does go a little judgemental; “you can’t honestly think he doesn’t suspect—”

“I really don’t think he does,” and it’s a strange thing, because no matter the words themselves, it don’t sound like Steve’s meaning to be deceitful about a thing. Kinda sounds a little like he’s mourning, like he’s just in a kind of pain. “If he did, then at least maybe I’d have some kind of,” he waves his hand in the air, looks frantic, at loose ends all around; “heads-up for where his head’s at.”

And they’re both quiet for a spell, and Wayne looks for Leah in the back, knew she was getting food ready and was happy to wait—for better or worse with the conversation he’s been privy to without permission unspooling at his side—but he’s starting to feel antsy for all that he’s hearing, and the way he can’t quite tamp down associating it all with Eddie, with touchy things Steve might have to tell Eddie—

“Tell him by the end of the weekend.”

And now: think he might have to tell, encouraged so damn strong and single-minded by his lady friend with her hand on his arm.

“That’s fucking tomorrow!”

“End,” she’s narrowing her eyes sharp enough Wayne notices more in the shift of the room than to see it head-on; “of,” and then she’s smacking Steve’s arm to emphasize hard enough it rings out; “the weekend.”

Then Wayne notices how her posture shifts, and she leans closer again, so much affection, and easy with it, and welcome for it, no doubt about it:

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” she says low and earnest; “especially not when the thing you’re like this about is,” and then her tone shifts to something bright, near-on hopeful, even:

“It’s such a good thing, Steve.”

“I mean,” Steve mumbles, kind of miserable really; “of course you think so.”

And Wayne don’t like where his head goes for things the girl who’s watching Steve with such soft eyes might think to be good, might think while she’s touching him so close and —

“He’ll,” and she huffs a touch before going all heartfelt again: “Eddie is going to—”

And the moment his plausible deniability about the subject of the discussion is gone, Wayne gives up waiting for his coffee at the counter and…retreats to the corner by the door, far as he can get from whatever’s said next. He’d leave, honest, but the truth of the matter’s this:

He can’t be expected in good faith to figure out how to bring any of this up with Ed if he don’t have no caffeine in him.

☕ 👀 ☕

✨ part ii >>>

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—and since this is almost a YEAR LATE, could I possibly offer it as a normal-amounts-of-late birthday gift, more than as an egregiously-and-unforgivably-late prompt fill for you?

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

NOTE: it's important to me that you know that Wayne's accept belongs to nowhere, and is just the voice of someone I knew as a kid, who also sounded like a little of everywhere and then again nowhere. so if you think some turn of phrase doesn't fit what you think you're reading in terms of dialect? it's just that this way of stringing words together is—with intention—its own amalgam of places and times

divider credit here and here