If you’re partial to noisy, jagged, sweet, blissfully strangled-and-reanimated rock-n-roll, you could definitely do worse than to download the previously unreleased Deerhunter album from 2005, “Carve Your Initials Into the Walls of the Night,” now available over at Bradford Cox’s blog. I haven’t listened through the whole thing yet, but the self-reflexivity of “Cicadas” and the wind-tunnel Tourette’s of “Bright and Early” make for some especially chewy listening.
Posts Tagged ‘Deerhunter’
Dear readers, my brain’s a bit crispy this morning: the Deerhunter/No Age/Dan Deacon show last night at the Memorial Union Terrace was really excellent (it’s funny how much slack one essentially has to cut a musician with regard to how they sound live vs. how they sound on their album; Deerhunter sounded roughly 65% cruder live than they do on, say, Microcastle, but I’m also sincerely glad that this is the case), but as my Republican friends (and Mark McGwire) like to say: that was in the past and we’re not here to talk about the past, we’re here to talk about the future… like, what’s playing on TCM today.
“Summer Under the Stars” continues with 24 hours of Glenn Ford. You’re probably trembling with excitement at the prospect of seeing Ford lust after and get all tangled up with Rita Hayworth in Charles Vidor’s Gilda (1946; 110 minutes), which will be on at 7:00PM; I’m genuinely thrilled about seeing that one. You’re also on the fence about watching Ford in the original 3:10 To Yuma (1957; 92 minutes), which will be on at 10:30PM. Finally, you’re dismayed by the absence of Fritz Lang’s The Big Heat (1953), because watching Ford get revenge for Gloria Grahame by punching a smarmy Lee Marvin’s teeth in never gets old. To laugh off your disappointment about this lack of Lang, you’re going to check out Ford and Henry Fonda in The Rounders (1965; 85 minutes), a western-comedy directed by Burt Kennedy, at 12:15AM. Not a bad day at all, really.
The rest of the schedule is here.
This looks like it could be a really wild spectacle/phenomenological-clusterfuck. I’ve never seen Deerhunter live, despite digging them since the point when everyone decided they were irrefutably diggable (around the time that Cryptograms was released); No Age, who I saw play at Union South (R.I.P.) last Fall, are certainly capable of conjuring sonic textures as tactile as they are aural (in other words, they take this so-called “face-melting” business very seriously); I can’t vouch for Dan Deacon, but what a gorgeous first-name. If any of you are planning to attend (and if the show actually happens, which I guess it will), don’t forget to ask Bradford Cox to sign your Jean Genet paperbacks after or during the performance.