Somewhere between my bathtub and the basement and this small shack behind my mom’s house outside Seattle, armed with my Strat, a delay pedal, a busted 30-watt amp, an iPhone and a four-track, I wrote and recorded an album. It’s called Suburban Crime Music and you can find out more about it here. (You can also open the stream in a new window at Soundcloud.)
This is a strange project for me, one I’ve been toying with mentally for a long time, but only in spring did I really start jumping in to playing extensively. These finished pieces are more finely-constructed versions of sessions I would play in my living room as a form of anxiety relief.
Download the album right here.
(It may show up in your MP3 library under Obstrepitum or Colin Smith, depending on how your software reads ID3 tags.)
(If you don’t understand what that means, congratulations, you probably didn’t get thrown into as many walls in high school as I did.)
I have watched this more than a couple times since it debuted last week, and I think it’s the perfect Monday morning thing. Regardless on your opinion of this song or the Foo Fighters (both, in my opinion, essential mainstream rock staples), this shows the power of music. (In case you aren’t aware, the entire thing was organized to get the Foos to play Cesena on a future tour.)
Look at how happy all those people are. Look at the passion of the man who organized it all, just for the one show. It’s a perfect representation of this sublime and impossible-to-touch feeling that creates community from sound.
(Also, that guy’s speech totally sold me on spending some time to make some art in Italy once I get overseas. Looks like it convinced Dave, too.)
Even I’m surprised at the amount of hip-hop I’ve been in to lately. Though most of it is sociopolitical (Lupe Fiasco, K.R.I.T. or Kendrick), a disproportionate amount of my time has been invested in trap music or listening to Nicki Minaj gloat about being, well, Nicki Minaj.
And she has to be single soon, right?