Holy shit.

The main hook of this is used over the end credits of Museum Hours, and after seeing that film and hearing the guitar riff I wasn’t sure there could be any beauty to add until I heard her sing.

I think I saw you in my sleep, darling. I think I saw you in my dreams. You were stitching up the seams on every broken promise that your body couldn’t keep. I think I saw you in my sleep.

I thought I heard the door open, oh no, I thought I heard the door open but I only heard it close. I thought I heard a plane crashing, but now I think it was your passion snapping. I think you saw me confronting my fear, it went up with a bottle and went down with the beer and I think you ought to stay away from here. There are ghosts in the walls and they crawl in your head through your ear.

I think I saw you in my sleep, lover. I think I saw you in my dreams. You were stitching up the seams on every mangled promise that your body couldn’t keep. I think I saw you in my sleep.


I know that someday you’ll be sleeping, darling, likely dreaming off the pain. I hope you’ll hear me in the streetlights, humming, softly breathing out your name. I know that even with the seams stitched tightly, darling, scars will remain.

I say we scrape them from each other, darling, and let them wash off in the rain. And when they run into the river, oh no, let the water not complain. I swear that even with the distance slowly wearing out your name, your hands still catch the light the right way and our hearts still beat the same. And our hearts still beat the same

For all the talk regarding Selma and the Oscars, we should also recognize though just in general how traditionally under-represented / minority voices are killing it in producing quality discourse in mainstream arts and entertainment right now.

The Nightly Show? Two episodes in and completely sold. Broad City? One of the best first seasons since Arrested Development, and all of that comparison to Girls is stupid. (The latter, which, while I’ve grown tired of keeping up with Hannah Horvath, will always have a pretty outstanding debut season.)

Speaking of Broad City, check out their interview with Sleater-Kinney.

(Sleater-Kinney, who just released a ridiculously fantastic record after being a defining force of the history of women in music for two decades.)

On one hand, a lot of this falls in to the About Fucking Time category, but progress and recognition is one of those things that you at least have to still count the wins with. It’s not that these are new attitudes we’re seeing; it’s just so refreshing to actually being something from outside the status quo finally breaching in to the mainstream.

There’s a scene in an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (leading up to this interaction) where DL Hughley talks about the necessity of diversity on a writing staff, and this is all evidence of why it’s great to tackle these things with truth. I don’t necessarily identify with Illana on Broad City at a character level (the way all the characters on Friends catered to white American men), but I love watching the stories they are telling.

Universal truths can be told through any lens if they’re told well, and transcend gender, race, language, all of it; that is the importance of art, after all.

It isn’t just that Boy was one of last year’s better releases, or that seeing her open for Swans was one of the better shows of 2014, but when Carla Bozulich sings, “Maybe it’s the fever, maybe I’m not real / Oh, or too much sun, I just want to feel your skin / Let’s move this part of my shot heart / Lazy crossbones, bringing me home” and leads in to that crunchy guitar, there’s a recognizable expression of a greater truth in the moment.

Perhaps it’s vague or subjective, but the last third of this song has something serene yet disturbing going on that is lacking in contemporary music: a sense of art.

(Hang on to each other …)

We all got born so afraid and we still search for words to describe that pain and cling to each other like pigeons in the rain and nuzzle over feathered breasts with beaks all worn and cracked and stained.

(Hang on to each other …
and hang on to each other … )

So this one’s for the lost ones and the dead ones and the ones who fell away. All our busted brothers, tumbled lovers spitting at the rain. We all got born so afraid and still search for words to describe that pain.

Hang on to each other and any fucking thing you love …

Birds toss precious flowers from the murky skies above.

Malia Obama knows what’s up.

It takes a lot to get me to listen to Christmas music—especially after the holidays—but this is just the best song. Also perfect for Sunday morning studio motivation. (Followed closely by the opener of RTJ2.)

(Also, speaking of Nick Cave, holy sweet hot damn.)

Crave, desolate, you dive in, we follow along. I contrive you with whiskey and Sam Cooke songs and we lay on our backs, soaking wet below a static TV set. Conversation flows. Counting shooting stars and catfish. But I’ll never make a wish.

Barefoot, parking lot. Getting high in Portland, Oregon. We echo 17 and we glue it back and poke fun and it gets real quiet, I don’t care. Darting with moonshine, truth or dare. I say just what I’m thinking and second guess instantly and you laugh at me.

We stick to our slow motion memory. It’s one in the morning and 90 degrees and though now it is hovering darkly over me, it’ll look just like heaven when I get up and leave.
You’re a ghost and I can’t breathe.

Had the joy of finally catching the insanely fantastic Katie Crutchfield after missing her last two Portland shows for reasons I can’t explain. But more importantly here is the fact her voice is just so stupidly good and the words she’s singing are pretty great, too.