Indier than thou or: how I learned to stop worrying and dislike Belle & Sebastian

Ooh, its been suggested that I've been “crushed” in an ongoing dispute which has recently made the jump from living room to the blogosphere . My ego can't let this go without rebuttal. My esteemed sister-in-law believes Belle & Sebastian to be a band of unrivaled intensity, lyrical composition and musical integrity. While I can appreciate her stance, and feel the same about several bands that I listen to, I remain compelled to disagree. Before I go much further I'll have to resort to the, now tired, tool of imaginary conversation. This being an average exchange between Ms. Drobny and I when the issue arises.


Kristina: Colin, Why aren't Belle and Sebastian your favorite band yet? I've brought them up in conversation at least five times now.
Colin: Eh, They just don't do it for me.
Kristina:Shaking her head How could they not do it for you, they're awesome!
Colin: Although that may be true to you, I find the mix of depressed lyrics paired with paradoxically upbeat music to send conflicting messages and to then to bury some sort of homo erotic/high school angst message beneath it all is too much. All of the content they try to express in a single stanza only succeeds in diluting and/or convoluting any message they may be trying to express; not that I'm positive there is a message .
Kristina: Nonplussed Yeah, but, Belle and Sebastian are awesome!
Colin: Perhaps, but one persons awesome is another's stagnant and unfocused.
Kristina: Feeling thoughtful I see what you are saying, but I'm worried that you may not be taking into consideration that Belle and Sebastian are awesome!
Colin: Begins to drool and beat his chest with his knuckles. Groggety gruk, bleach, blach bluuhh.


Okay, now that we have that out of the way, we should probably start by looking at what she believes to be the reasons I dislike Belle and Sebastian, systematically rebut them, explain the true reasons as to why I don't like them, and then go on and examine exactly why this entire response is superfluous.
So, as promised, Kristina believes my reasons for not liking Belle & Sebastian to be:

1.Their music is too upbeat to be tragic.
2.Where's the irony and pain?
3.Their lyrics are not very complex and are too strange.
4.Musically and emotionally, they just can't compare to Damien Rice.
5.Even if I (Colin) did find their music interesting and awesome, I can't like the band because of
the history involved with me not liking the band.

The Truth:
1.Somewhat correct, I find the combination of happy-go-lucky music and tragic lyrics to be somewhat off-putting. Like seeing someone barfing with joy, it just leaves you feeling a little weird inside, as though some aspect of your perception is somehow off. More on that below.

2.Believe it or not (and the recurring reference to Damien Rice would make one lean toward the latter)I don't listen to music for pure irony or pain, but if that is what I'm looking for, I'd rather it be presented up front, purely, and without peripheral junk to dilute it. If you are looking to convey an emotion then don't mire it in convoluted lyrics that require three long pages of analysis, do it simply, plainly. Or, if the point is the story, then tell the story, plainly, no need to drag the sexuality of ball players into it (altho, when you refer to them as ball players I begin to question Piazza's orientation.) Talk of your accidental love like it is.

3.Perhaps it isn't that Belle and Sebastian see life through many lenses, each more melodramatic than the previous, maybe they (he?) are (is?) just crappy writers who can't express a concise concept. See also “you just have to work at determining what it is you should be feeling”, if its too much work, then it isn't well done. Imho.

4.To compare Damien Rice to Belle and Sebastian is a bad idea. I don't know if I started this, but I'm going to have to end it here. They play different types of music, and approach it with wholly different perspectives. To cite their shared instrumentalization as proof of musical equality is to say that the Democrats and Republicans are the same because they are all rich (mostly) white guys in suits (Go Obama!).

5.This is a good point, and one I should probably elaborate on. The first few times this conversation was had I was earnest and interested, but after that I decided that A) I do not like B&S. B) I do not like green eggs and ham C) No amount of persuading is going to change my musical tastes. D) I do not like them sam I am. E) I wasn't about to kill someone's enthusiasm with my own opinionated nature. F) It is kinda funny to have the same conversation over and over again.



Now that we have that out of the way, I will outline exactly what I dislike about them. First and foremost, I can't stand homeboy's voice, it is obnoxious in a very whiney and powerless way.(to be read in a sing-songy voice) “Something crappy happened to me, but I've decided there is nothing I can do about it but sit here and sing.... poorly.” I'm not really the type to say this sort of thing, but this occasion begs it. Dude, grow a pair, seriously.

I believe I covered their poor lyrics fairly well above, but let it be said again, I don't think they are very good.

I don't find their music to be at all engaging, perhaps I'm just a sucker for a good hook, but these guys do nothing for me. I have been told by someone who's musical opinion I respect very much that they are quite adept musically. If that is the case (I wonder if he may be swayed slightly by his wife's opinion) then it won't be the first time I didn't like “great” music, see also Frank Zappa.

As far a the quantity of whack-ass-shit produced by Kerouac (it's something of a low blow, comparing B&S to my favorite author), it truly is unfair to judge an artist by their most whack ass shit, you can only judge an artist by their body of work. Picasso and Dali have both done their share of whack ass shit, but it's their entire body of work that make them shine. shit—everyone does wack ass shit, but we judge them by their overall quality rather than that of their most whack. With that standard in place, B&S still comes in far below Kerouac on the poetry front (and his poetry is awful).

My next bit of evidence comes from a source so highly esteemed that I believe it seals the deal. Behold, a verbatim conversation from the film High Fidelity (if you haven't seen it, do it. now. before you finish reading this)

Barry: Holy shite. What the fuck is that?
Dick: It's the new Belle and Sebastian...
Rob: It's a record we've been listening to and enjoying, Barry.
Barry: Well, that's unfortunate, because it sucks ass.


As this is slowly becoming little more than a rant, I'm going to end it with this. I can't be sold a band I don't like. I will never listen to Celine Dion no matter how much my friends want me to. As far as personal preference goes I respect Kristina's decision, and I'm sure her reasons for liking them are equally as valid as mine for not. Perhaps next time we will discuss her refusal to give the Dead Kennedy's a listen...



So, in in the name of full disclosure I suppose I should mention that I'm posting this from under Mrs. Drobny-Bonds roof, which leads me to fear some sort of retaliation; a meatspace denial of service attack, like refusing me coffee in the morning....

Florida, even an outlaw needs some sun.

Okay, A bit of a game for y'all. Match the answer with the correct statement

Options:
A) Awesome
B) Crappy

1: Seventy and Sunny with single digit highs at home (I'm all about single digits apparently).
2: Lying in a hammock being rocked to sleep by a stiff sea breeze.
3: Science museums.
4: Endless strip malls
5: All you can eat sushi.
6: Having to return to single digit highs.
7: Not having the cats around.
8: Environmental havoc touted as tourist attraction.


Answers/Explanations at a later date.

Tonights Forecast: Single digit lows.

Think about that for a moment. It's freakin' cold. I'm struggling to come to terms with this winter thing. It arrives with a bitter chill and a fine frost on fresh fallen leaves; your mind immediately drifts to cozy woodstove evenings, mulled wine and snowshoeing in near absolute silence. At the time you would swear these warm thoughts would be more than enough to get you through three months of winter.

Now, lets rejoin reality (albeit grudgingly).

Single digit lows.

Do you remember what that means? It means frozen boogers the moment you step outside, it means frozen toes in wet shoes and it means those very single digits settling in your bones, not merely for the three months specified on your calendar, for nearly five months (and I didn't even count November, but it is awarded an honorable mention).
So, I've spent the day trying to delay the onset of winter by actively hating on it, and I think things are going well thus far. It did stop snowing.

I know I've defaulted on my promise to update regularly, and for that I do apologize, but life's been busy. As it shows no sign of slowing I'm going to try harder to keep updated. In fact, I may be so brazen as to cover those lost weeks, but don't get your hopes up.

Keep warm.

Hello

Okay, first posting, so some form of introduction and essential theme should be established. Bear with me, things can only get easier from here.

I am me. An entity of carbon and water, human by genetics, I live in the state of Vermont first and foremost and the united states by coincidence, I live in a barn, affectionately termed the outlaw barn (and somewhat correctly as, without an occupancy permit, occupation of which is technically illegal) and try to live up to the outlaw title. Not merely as a law breaker but as one who exists, as much as conveniently possible, independent of the rules applied to me by others; an attempt to govern oneself by moral alone. Not to be confused with anarchy, this is an entirely respectful mode of live-and-let-living. Those who desire the path be narrowed are more than welcome to do so, and may even tax and tame me when I choose to partake in their world, but the barn is mine to be me. To quote my man Tom Robbins,

"...I love the trite mythos of the outlaw. I love the self-conscios romanticism of the outlaw. I love the black wardrobe of the outlaw. I love the fey smile of the outlaw. I love the tequila of the outlaw and the beans of the outlaw. I love the way respectable men sneer and say 'outlaw'. The outlaw boat sails against the flow, and I love it. Outlaws toilet where badgers toilet, and I love it. All outlaws are photogenic, and I love that. 'When freedom is outlawed, only outlaws will be free', that's a graffito seen in Anacortes, and I love that. There are outlaw maps that lead to outlaw treasures, and I love those maps especially. Unwilling to wait for mankind to improve, the outlaw lives as if that day were here, and I love that most of all."

That being cleared up there's another driving force behind this. Perhaps the most important of all, setting aside for the moment my narcissistic tendencies. To tell the story. Which is to say I am not alone yet I am unique, and my story is worthy of telling. A small addition to the story of man, and equally insignificant. I refuse to yield the history of things to politicians and the wealthy. Consider this my autobiography, my footnote in history.
Or in the (much more eloquent) words of Will Saroyan,

"Think of America, I told myself this morning. The whole thing. the cities, all the houses, all the people, the coming and going, the coming of children, the going of them, the coming and going of men and death, and life, the movement, the talk, the sound of machinery, the oratory, think of the pain in America and the fear and the deep inward longing of all things alive in America, Remember the great machines, wheels turning, smoke and fire, the mines and the men working them, the noise, the confusion. Remember the newspapers and the moving picture theaters and everything that is a part of this life. Let this be your purpose: to suggest this great country.
Then turn to the specific, Go out to some single person and dwell with him within him, lovingly, seeking to understand the miracle of his being, and utter the truth of his existence and reveal the splendor of the mere fact of his being alive, and say it in great prose, simply, show that he is of the time, of the machines and the fire and smoke, the newspaper and the noise. Go with him to his secret and speak of it gently, showing that it is the secret of man Do not deceive. Do not make up lies for the sake of pleasing anyone. No one need be killed in your story. Simply relate what is the great event of all history, of all time, the humble, artless truth of all history, of all time, the humble, artless truth of mere being. There is no greater theme: no one need be violent to help you with your art. There is violence. Mention it of course when it is time to mention it. Mention the war. Mention all ugliness, all waste. Do even this lovingly. But emphasize the glorious truth of mere being. It is the major theme. You do not have to create a triumphant climax. The man you write of need not perform some heroic or monsterous deed in order to make your prose great. Let him do what he has always done, day in and day out, continuing to live. Let him walk and talk and think and sleep and dream and be alive. It is enough. There is nothing else to write about. You have never seen a short story in life. The short story or the form of the poem, or into another form. Your own consciousness is the only form you need Speak of this man, recognize his existence. Speak of man. "

Take this as my manifesto, a inkling of things to come.
I intend to post weekly, at least, and whimsically at best.
namaste