Drew first blood.

Status messages matter more than you think – a dubiously-positioned comma raises more than an eyebrow; a drastic enough change begs an avalanche of questions tomorrow. They thought I would not be able to take it, but really, they should have known me better than that.

Having to deal with two bloody disappointments within a span of a fortnight is more than I can take. So, yes – while I am left waiting for word that will never come, I am still hoping that the days ahead will be easier to overcome.

And that is why I have finally caved in.

On hindsight, perhaps it was simply inevitable.

You may string me out to dry and put me on the wire, but I will tell you to keep your headphones close to your heart, because that is where it will undoubtedly hit you the hardest. The effects will not be immediate, but they are indeed immaculate, unerringly coming towards you in a kind of careful precision that eventually translates into a glorious punch in the gut fit not for television.

Mr Berninger, you have completely ruined me, time and again. They say love is a virtue, do they not? – but know that I will still believe in you no matter what others say.

Pink rabbits.

Just another seven days to go now.

I thought I am not one to care much about leaked albums, but here I am, trying to hold off the temptation for as long as I can. It has been sitting quietly in my hard drive for a few days now, and to be honest, I am not sure if this pointless exercise makes any difference at all.

Because I would still buy the album despite the killer shipping charges that come up to more than a dime; worry if and when it will arrive safely intact as punishment without crime; then listen to it from start to finish, every single fucking time.

Because I would still get a ticket to see them even if it means I may have to drive across town to secure a front row seat; hug it out with other like-minded fans in a hot and sweaty mosh pit; or wait a full ten hours just to watch the band dance onstage like prancing ants for less than a minute.

Because I would still let you into my life: wholeheartedly, immeasurably and for eternity.

So, yes – just take my money, please.

I do not know about you, but answer me this: what if you died today not knowing the true beauty of “Humiliation”, or be embraced by the unforgiving force that is “Graceless”?

I was a television version of a person with a broken heart.

A pause in the air.

As it turns out, my instincts have been gravely wrong all this time. Like a malfunctioning smoke alarm, it beeps annoyingly at unspecified intervals, screams like a witch just as you are about to retire to bed, and does absolutely nothing even when you wave your burnt microwaved dinner under it.

Because for a long while, all was well. Everything seemed to be falling nicely into place – the right words were coming at the right time, untimely delays were turning out to be blessings in disguise. There was simply no reason for them not to. The lucky streak was unstoppable.

I was unstoppable.

I had confidence oozing through my veins; I had every right to be taking charge of the reins.

But all these have been for nought; I am left in shambles regardless. For this is almost fifteen months of hard work flushed down the drain.

I thought I was missing just that one piece of the puzzle to complete the picture. It did come in that perfect size and fit and colour, but once assembled, something – or in this case, nothing – actually happened. I was expecting my first and only pristine masterpiece of the century; instead, all I got in return was an ugly blot of ink smeared to eternity.

So. The subtle, quiet laws of attraction; those tell-tale signs that let you know that things are happening the way they should – these are all bullshit. I must have run out of luck and fortitude midway through, or lost my magic potion of ten gold coins true.

Now I am completely ruined, stubbornly in denial right to the very end. I suspect I must have made quite a spectacularly sore sight: blue skies overhead and around, a very sorry gooey something on the ground.

Next up, I just need to get rid of that ticket I had bought on a whim for a night at the Ally Pally. It may well have been the stupidest thing I have ever done, but then again, I should probably keep it close to heart to remind me of what it once was, and what it could have been.

I don’t wanna get over you.

A careful fear.

As bad habits are wont to do, there may be no good in beginning anew. I can but only try.

Hummingbird
Local Natives
29 January 2013

Any one would have thought it a disadvantage to have an album released that early into the new year, and especially in one potentially populated with the most comebacks and returns. Big names are still being feverishly bandied about at the time of writing, with expectations looming higher than ever, but fans of the Local Natives are quick to make confident declarations that the Los Angeles quartet’s latest release, Hummingbird, will have no problems at all scoring a spot in many of the year’s best-of lists.

The band’s return to the fold was celebrated with the unveiling of a few new songs – while the catchy lead single “Breakers” still had the signature sound of the Local Natives, it was the lonely, soaring vocals in “You and I” and the gently pulsating “Heavy Feet” that seemed to set off alarm bells. Gone were the clap-happy tunes and gleeful shoutouts that made up their loud and boisterous debut album Gorilla Manor; in contrast, Hummingbird can best be described as the soft-spoken second sibling – a quiet achiever forever reminiscing about lost loves, cold sunrises and silver dreams.

Sure, there is still the occasional fun little ditty like in “Ceilings”, a brief and simple track that is as sweet as honey on a warm summer’s day – but it is in special moments such as the affecting “Mt. Washington” and heartwrenching “Colombia” that the band seemingly lay bare their souls, building emotional climaxes with thin, fragile falsettos and sad, poignant lyrics that will put a crack to even the hardest of stones.

Admittedly, Hummingbird may not be as easily accessible as its sunnier predecessor, but it is still an album destinied for keeps, and there is no doubt that the Local Natives will continue to set hearts aflutter in years to come.

Wakin’ on a Pretty Daze
Kurt Vile
9 April 2013

One would balk at the idea of having to listen to a 70-minute-long album from start to finish, but Kurt Vile has apparently found one easy solution to this: he has conveniently bookended Wakin’ on a Pretty Daze with two of the loveliest – though longest – tracks in the album.

And so it is that we find it easy to forgive the co-founder and former band member of The War on Drugs for swaggering by so casually in the almost title track and opener “Wakin’ on a Pretty Day”, his trademark slacker drawl and addictive guitar riffs urging you to tap your feet to the music before long, injecting a generous dose of optimism to kickstart your day.

Well, perhaps there is some truth to what they say: the destination matters not at all, for it is the journey that makes it more than worthwhile. Wakin’ on a Pretty Daze may be full of jammy and lengthy outros, but they are there not just for show: every single note seems to be perfectly placed, unerringly matching with the mood of the moment, your attention wavering not at all. This formula is successfully employed throughout the album, including in the punchy yet graceful lead single “Never Run Away” and the urgent strumming of strings present in “Snowflakes Are Dancing”.

As if to demonstrate what a pretty daze really feels like, Vile rewards us with the dreamy closer “Goldtone”, which seems to paint a lone picture of him silhouetted at sunset, mulling over life’s biggest mysteries with a cool pina colada in hand. We watch on, equally as fixated, as the great ball of fire slowly disappears over the horizon, its graceful descent punctuated by a series of ascending notes that eventually leads the album to a triumphant finale. Simply sublime.

Upcoming releases for 2013:
The National. And The National only. I make no apologies, because nothing else matters anymore. See Metacritic’s release calendar here.

An awkward phase.

So I envy, and then I worry.

It is that precious moment of pure, unadulterated bliss that I seek – of at first being gifted with something so devastatingly underwhelming, and then learning to welcome and violently embrace it – broken chords, warts and all. It eventually becomes a rare heartache that can never go away for long, and strangely enough, I fear it may never come to pass again.

See, the cover art was visually unappealing, the song titles at immediate glance shockingly uninspiring.

Then came the first song subdued in nature, warmed only by that familiar low register in answer.

And now, three years later, caution is still my middle name. Even a trained hunter carefully circling its prey can never be fully prepared; you could choose to either boldly launch the first strike, or forever remain at risk at being struck mercilessly from behind.

So today I shall accept the passing buzzards and swimming alligators, steering away willingly and into the unknown. For I know that there is more to this than just the science of listening to you, to get to you.

And I can not hardly wait.

I am secretly in love with,
Everyone that I grew up with.