If you sense something different about today's post, perhaps a residue of some kind, then you are a particularly astute reader and have picked up on the fact that my editor, Max Maki, has laid her greasy palms all over this stuff (these posts were, she will claim (she's hungry for credit (albeit, where it's due)) co-written).
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The Silt - "A Song About A Red Whistle"
I once had a red fox forty. So I know something about whistles. Excited to sit down and put my knowledge to use, I was disappointed to discover that "A Song About A Red Whistle" is actually a song about a song about a red whistle. Knowing nothing about songs, I wept.
"A Song About a Red Whislte" is a shanty stomp from the mines to the mess hall. Hat brim-skewed, fingers blackened, stomach shrunken, body so tired your mind can’t remember what you had for breakfast (beans? was it beans again?), let alone a song you wrote a full year ago. This latter lacuna of memory is the central crisis of this song which would otherwise be called A Red Whistle. A much catchier title.
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Every time I’ve seen Jim Guthrie play I’ve been impressed by his guitar playing. Unfortunately, his arrangements tend to be distractingly misguided (electric cellos? Sony playstation composition games!.?) and his songwriting questionable. This song avoids the Guthrie pitfalls through its simplicity. The warm drive of the drum beat (unassuming, but mesmerizing, soothing but, yes, sexy) carries the guitar and cheap organ over the bass’ melodic framework. Plain and nice.
Guthrie’s use of the word “score” hints at the two most salient features of the drummer’s existence: counting bars and notches on bedposts.