Record review: "Ashtray Rock" by Joel Plaskett Emergency

If I was applying for a job as a record reviewer at the local newspaper, this is what I would submit.

The first time I heard "Ashtray Rock" it went immediately on the medium-length mental list of records I wish I had made myself. I love every track. I love the loose narrative connecting all the songs about first bands and fights over girls in the teenage years. I love the influence of various classic rock and pop styles. To me, this sounds like a semi-homage, or at least an allusion, to the music Joel P. (and by extension, all of us listeners) grew up with. Eschewing the meandering, amelodic, 'we can't really play our instruments so we pretend this noise is deliberate' hackery of much contemporary indie rock, these songs on "Ashtray Rock" are unapologetically catchy, well-played rock and roll. In fact, some of these tracks -like the unabashed doo-wop of "Penny for your thoughts" or the chunky 70s power chords of "Snowed in" - would sound downright anachronistic if it wasn't for the lyrics; JP's words are at turns clever, self-deprecating, goofy, and sarcastic - all very characteristic of contemporary writing, starkly different from the earnest, minimally poetic innocence that would have been present in the musical styles that inspired this record.
The production and mixing are great - there are a lot of different sounds but it never sounds muddy. The band is tight and precise. And the artwork! You kids with your MP3s and your burned CDs: Buy the real thing! Instead of lyrics, there is a black and white drawing by Rebecca Kraatz for each track, beautifully capturing the song's contribution to the album's "plot", essentially creating a mini graphic novel with no words, just a soundtrack. Crank it up!

Loyalty

I've been thinking about the notion of loyalty lately: how it is a great human virtue, how it is a wonderful way to show love, how it fosters trust and how it is an instinctive way to take care of someone. Unfortunately, I've been reflecting on this topic subsequent to some recent hurtful displays of personal disloyalty. Not that this is really in the same league, but I rolled back into Boston just in time for one more act of brutal disloyalty, this one inflicted collectively on Red Sox Nation. Goddammit.

Oklahoma for the holidays

Overnight bus from Montreal to Boston for the hundredth time. Couldn't wait til morning, just had the get the hell out of Dodge (for the thousandth time).

About 4am, White River Junction. I wake up when we stop to pick up some more passengers.

Onto the bus strides a man who looks out of place in Vermont. Big black suede cowboy hat. Leather boots. He stops at the row where I'm sitting and looks at the empty seat next to me.

"Mind if I sit here?". He has an accent that makes him sound like someone from TV trying to sound like a tough cowboy.

He sits next to me. He is wearing a manly fragrance. A sensory distillation of some epiphenomenal esthetic comprised of leather and wood and skies at beginnings and ends of days.

He is simultaneously talkative and terse. "Just lemme know if I'm keepin you awake," he says, and then he keeps me awake, talking softly. Minimalist narrative.

He's heading to Oklahoma, via Manchester then Cincinnati. "My daughter's been fightin with her old man, so she wanted her daddy around for the holidays." It's not clear if he is being summoned for comfort or protection; he doesn't elaborate.

He was a professional rodeo rider. He did two hitches in the service, starting in Vietnam. He has traveled around the country and talks to me about the places we've both been. He speaks so softly I often can't hear him. When he takes off his jacket, I see that he has a tattoo stretching the length and breadth of his forearm. It is dominated by brilliant shades of red: hearts, blood, snakes. The stacked sheets of muscle underneath the image were earned through work, not cultivated.

It is still dark when we stop at the little airport in New Hampshire. He stands and puts on his jacket.

"It was nice talkin to you," he says.

A minute later I watch him walk towards the terminal, shouldering a tightly-packed green canvas duffel bag. We haven't exchange names, so I use this image to mark his place on my list of temporary, unique path crossings.

An hour later, I'm waking up again as we arrive in Boston, this time to dawnlight and the orienting proximity of ocean and remembered architecture. My first thought is to draw some type of contrast in my mind between Christmas spent on horseback in Oklahoma and whatever familiar, illusory refuge awaits me in my equivalent geography.

Do me a favour

Alright, now, I had to stop writing for a while, because I got a bad taste in my mouth about this here blog. I got a bad taste in my mouth because some people that were leaving comments were leaving mean comments about other comment-leavers. Know what I mean? So, knock it off. Let's all get along. Ok, as I was saying...

"Do we have time to stop for milk or will they all be dead by then?"

As I walked up to the supermarket today, I noticed a fire truck parked in the parking lot. As one often does upon seeing emergency vehicles, I wondered if something was amiss. I was pretty sure the joint wasn't burning down (that would have been obvious) but they send fire trucks for all sorts of medical emergencies. Anyway, I promptly forgot about the whole thing once I got inside and started looking for groceries.

When I got in line, however, I eventually noticed that behind me were two firefighters, in full uniform, with a cart full of groceries.

Did these guys take the firetruck to the store to pick up dinner??

Helter skeeter

A preemptive strike against a mosquito leaves a smudge of someone else's blood on my wall.

Now I'm worried that if some evil befalls one of the neighbours, forensic evidence exists that could be construed as linking my bedroom to the crime.

If you're reading this, please note the date, as you may have to testify at my trial.

KKKapitalism

Someone gave me a coupon for a free 12 pack of Molson beer. I don't drink any Molson products, because they're shitty and I don't like them. "But it's FREE!" some part of me said. So I schlepped myself around to 2 depanneurs and finally the supermarket, trying to get someone to accept this coupon, and now I'm drinking a shitty beer that makes me wince with every sip I take. The invisible hand of the free market economy helps out the little guy once again. Thank you, cultural conditioning, for making me believe that getting something for free is an irresistable act of genius! Thank you, captains of industry, for knowing this about me and giving me the impetus to consume things I don't even like! Thank you all, and good night.