I’ve had it in my head for two days now, and so I’ve thought a little about what the words mean. Like with almost every song of theirs, there’s a lot of ways to think about it. I can’t prove any connection to Nietzsche or Alice in Wonderland (or even really understand them), and so, like with so many other songs, I instead attach meaning to a few lines, building a sort of emotional atmosphere to define the album. It’s easier, and probably more accurate in most cases. Even if I get some words wrong. With this song, it’s the “jump from the hook” and “they got no right” and the “whoaa-ooa-ooaa!” that, draped over that incredible crescendo of arpeggios and the drums that blow up at 2:24, make this song so invigorating and optimistic. The whole thing is just completely perfect.

The Shins — Sleeping Lessons (The Rac Mix)

You’ve probably heard the original, so: remix! Who ‘The Rac’ is remains a mystery, and while the drums just aren’t the same here, the fist-pumping bass more than makes up for it. Some nice female back-up vocals too. One for the collection, anyway.

Once, I got up from studying on some upper floor, took the elevator down, and just as I walked through the library doors and out into the sun the drums of the original kicked in and suddenly everything I had ever wanted to do was bright and possible. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel that way.

Blackalicious — Make You Feel That Way

I somehow missed “Make You Feel That Way” in high school. Well, not somehow. Complete radio avoidance, the shunning of hip-hop, and an IDM obsession. That’s how. How I discovered it, several years late, was something that happens a lot with me — in a mashup.

The Kleptones — My People Feel Like That In The Morning

Interestingly, the music behind the words was “In the Morning of the Magicians,” the first Flaming Lips song I ever heard and probably my favorite from “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots” (because of the drums, what else?). Plus Missy Elliott, so, come on, this thing is positively bulletproof. Download the whole album, you won’t be sorry.

Moments in Music, Part Four (3:16)

Sigur Rós — Starálfur

Pedro asked me:

“Are you satisfied with the song that is left as your most recent for a month?”

He was talking about my most recently Scrobbled song — “Teachers” by Daft Punk — which I don’t remember a second of because that was the first time I’d heard it and I was headed out the door anyway. I was listening to it because some music review that I can no longer locate had claimed that some song by some band was the answer to Daft Punk’s “Teachers.” Curious, I checked it out, having downloaded all three major Daft Punk LPs a week or so earlier and subsequently listening only to “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” about sixty times. So, you tell me: is this any good?

Daft Punk — Teachers

I had my iPod on me, though, later that day, and I’m relatively certain that the last song I heard was the Max Tundra remix of “Decent Days and Nights” by The Futureheads. Which I know is fantastic.

The Futureheads — Decent Days and Nights (Max Tundra Remix)

Six days, mofos.

Moments in Music, Part Three.

Speaking of the songs and videos that give me chills, there’s not a day dark enough that the smiles from this “Take-Away Show” by the inimitable La Blogoteque couldn’t brighten. Watch Menomena play Wet and Rusting in a French courtyard. Repeat as needed.

Yeah, sometimes those moments just rock. Like the Sunset Rubdown song with which I started off, or the invincible cowbell between 1:29 and 1:44 in The Rapture’s “Echoes.”

The Rapture — Echoes

And this one, which I love despite (because of?) how gleefully stupid and simple it is. The title is more or less the lyrics, and I think I saw a commercial with this song that had a car fighting a bull, or something. It fit remarkably. I specifically dig that syncopated vocal shredding at exactly two minutes. You know how I roll. A percussive vocal sample? That’s like peanut butter and chocolate. Yes please!

Blur — Crazy Beat

I don’t what to else to write about these songs, other than that I really want to actually listen to them. These moments, I’ve found, are the ones I remember most. After the first week or so, the seconds-long hooks completely disappeared. I don’t know why, but it seems that recently the only thing going through my head is my own humming. There’s a week left, and I’m over the 24-hour-headphones thing, but I really just want to listen to music.

This is sitting in my “After the Month” playlist and on my shelf, taunting me. Every time I get the urge to listen to it, I just tell myself how much more amazing it’s going to be when I finally do.

Moments in Music, Part Two.

As I alluded to in Part One, my favorite single moments in music are defined just as much by what surrounds them. The contrast, those — dare I say — sexual moments of flash and boom and release. It’s primitive and transcendant all at once.

In some cases it’s what makes one version of a song different from another. My favorite Radiohead song is “Idioteque.” When, at about 1:41, the live drums literally kick in and refuse to stop in the concert version on “I Might Be Wrong,” well, can you blame Thom Yorke for dancing like he does? I get chills watching that, and if you tell me you didn’t dance like that in your room, alone, at least once during middle or high school, well, I feel for you. I feel bad for you. You should be dancing right now. Go:

Radiohead — Idioteque (from “I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings”)

Moments in Music, Part One.

Nothing much to report. I miss music a lot, and there’s a playlist waiting called “After the Month” in iTunes; it’s got 179 songs and grows every day. Here’s one of the songs I miss most; a tumbling, roaring, soaring story. And right at four minutes and twelve seconds — those hi-hats — oh, it’s perfection.

Sunset Rubdown — Up on Your Leopard, Upon the End of Your Feral Days

And I didn’t need to cheat to tell you that; I keep a list of these moments, with time, artist, song, and a brief note. Moments like 3:43 in “New Slang,” or from 6:10 on to the end of “Cabasa.”

Max Tundra — Cabasa

Or “What A Day Day,” 1:53 to 2:55, the ridiculous chorus catharsis.

Fog — What A Day Day

My favorite moments all have a few things in common. Either it’s a charging, rolling outro with all the stops pulled out and the harmony on overhaul, a particularly mind-melting breakbeat, some vocal or glitch effect, or the amazing release from something sustained.

I’ll continue with Moments in Music in a few days, after you’ve had time to properly digest the four monumentally awesome provisions herein. But before I go, I leave you with what is arguably the penultimate moment in all of music. Right around 2:24.

Animal Collective — Banshee Beat

You can’t just skip to there, though, or you’ll ruin it. Take a walk with this one, get your headphones, a sweatshirt. Take your time, because this song does and it’ll wonder where you’re going if you rush off. Seriously.

What are your favorite moments in music? Tell me. I love you.

Halfway there. Today was a Great Day, because I finally got a mattress (and boxspring!). I’m jealous of you guys, because you get to hear this:

Madvillain – Great Day (Four Tet Remix)

Too short, so good. All I can do is try and recite the entire thing by heart, which, I admit, is fun all the same. I came up with something while doing my laundry today; I’ll try to put it together for tomorrow.

My internet friend Caleb, curator of the fantastically artful and equally conceptual MP3 blog onebyone, asked:

“so does humming or singing a song count? like, when you get a song stuck in your head are you at least allowed to sing it in the shower?”

So far I’ve been humming and singing to myself without guilt, though I’ve noticed the amount thereof has decreased considerably since I pressed the big pause button. I think a lot of the humming and singing I did was to music that I was actively listening to. When one listens to music through as many hours of the day I did, the intersection of listening with any other activity has a very high probability.

Now, when I do think of something and start idly singing, it’s usually no more than a few syllables, best evidenced by the half-hour-long Umbrella-Ella-Ella-Eh-Eh Incident of Earlier This Week. I guess it’s true; the hook does bring you back.

Thinking about humming, I remembered that I have the habit, as some friends and family will recall, of singing about things that I do as I’m doing them. If I’m playing with a toy truck, I’ll sing about playing with a toy truck. If I’m working, I’ll sing about Photoshop or stylesheets.

My improvised verses are sometimes laid over a melody from whatever song is jamming my dome at the moment, but just as often it’s completely up to chance.

I’ve documented myself twice in the act: once in Japan, and once in Boston. But I’m in a new city now.

That’s right, it’s About 11:30 in Waikiki.

Oh and by the way, Beastie points out that the movie those CompSci nerds were talking about is called Mangler 2, and is the second in a trilogy. Sounds like Cube!

It’s Friday, I’m restless. It’s 10pm and not that warm out; I don’t want to swim. But I can’t sit here anymore today. I’ll go longboarding.

The New Pornographers — Centre for Holy Wars

Just try to listen to this song without getting the one-line refrain stuck in your head. It happened to me, and it’s been months since I last heard it. Ethan just saw them live, and it all comes highly recommended:

Ethan: You know how some bands’ shows are so good because they are so confident?
Ethan: They are beyond confident. I’d call them AUTHORITATIVE.

So I kind of cheated today. But only kind of. Today was good. Let me tell you. I woke up at 8am to my phone (after getting to bed around 4) but I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Dean created the WFFG.

I had a meeting at noon, and on the way up to the University, I was riding past this old guy dressed in white and a jungle hat, holding a white wooden cross. As I got nearer I lost control of my face and felt it turn to an expression of intrigue/disgust. Undaunted, he looked not so much at me but at some point behind my eyes and moaned, “heaveenn.”

In the Computer Science building, two nerds talked about elevators. “Did I tell you about the movie I saw where the whole building was computerized and it killed people by slamming doors on them?” … “No.”

In the organic foods market I found gluten-free pizza. And then the Flaming Lips came on, and then Jens Lekman. That’s where I kind of cheated, because, sorry, I cannot deny.

The Flaming Lips — Vein of Stars

Jens Lekman — Shirin

I asked the cashier which radio station it was and when I got outside and ate my apple and Kettle chips I called up KTUH.

“Hey, did you just play The Flaming Lips and Jens Lekman?”
“I totally just did.”
“I just got here, I’m so glad I heard that. Is there more of a scene here that I don’t know about?”
“There’s a small one. I’ve heard Jens Lekman at clubs.”

He was DJing, so when the song ended he stopped talking to me and announced the station. “I just got a call from someone who just tuned in for the first time. Yes — we do have some culture out here in the provinces.” He gave me a MySpace page to go to and told me to keep listening. Turns out I’d seen one of his DJ cohorts somewhere before.

Glazer’s was completely crowded but they were playing the Amélie soundtrack when I walked in.

And then there’s stuff like this and this being released. And announcements like this one. And this, damn it. And perhaps one of the greatest announcements in music history: new material (also their first remix!) from The Books.

By the way… sorry about the lack of updates and the disappearance and the sportfishing. I’m transferring my website to another web host and I’m still in the process of moving everything from over there to over here. Watch out for faulty wiring and exposed pipe.

And, hey, thanks for staying with me on this; it’s getting harder and easier all at the same time.

Chu chu chu chu beep beep.

Chu chu chu chu chu, chu chu chu chu chu.

Deerhoof — +81

Having a good weekend?

When we can’t belt away in the kitchen over dirty tiles, three-dollar speakers, and everyone else’s dishes, pan-hemispherical serendipitous digital belting will more than suffice.

Me: Hey you
Dean: hey jude
Dean: what’s up
Me: Takin’ a sad song and makin’ it better.
Dean: that’s what I always thought you should do, jude
Me: I know, I know, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to let her into my heart.
Dean: well, see, jude, that’s when you can start to make it better
Me: Better?
Dean: better.
Me: Better!
Dean: better. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Beatles — Hey Jude

When this month is over I’ll have a whole new set of musimes to remember. Today, a new reason to smile throughout my favorite four-minute outro of all time.

Notes from the outside. Some aren’t helping:

Peter: they came out with the most amazing song ever
Peter: today
Me: They did?
Me: How is it?
Peter: it’s the best thing you could have ever heard
Me: Oh.
Peter: it’s a blend of everything that is good
Peter: it’s like little puppies and ice cream and summer
Me: Really?
Me: I love puppies.
Peter: imagine them in song form
Me: Don’t tempt me!

If they did come out with that song, it might just be this one.

Animal Collective — Derek

An ice cream-summer-lullabye-singalong about a sheltie that a new father tells his new daughter he had when he was a child. How much she would have liked him, her teething tears drying as his tells the story, as he sings, a parent, a boy with a pet, and you can hear the wonder and frustration and commiseration and doubt, and when the story ends and she’s asleep, he stands up and walks down the hall wondering with unimaginable joy what they see when they inside of him, and knowing that they can always count, count, count on him.

All year long I’ve been keeping a playlist of the tracks I can’t stop playing. The year’s favorites. There are forty-four tracks in the playlist right now. I’d love for there to be exactly fifty, and with this month lost I may just make it.

I kept singing lines from my first obsession of the year today, especially when I was moving around — on the bus, on my bike, from the front door to my bedroom. I can remember where I first heard this song, who I attached it to, and at least three clear mental pictures of myself listening on repeat. I suppose today’s transportation triggered my ‘spections, and a feeling of longing for New England brought the song back.

I remember it so well, and so strong is the feeling and experience I’ve connected it to (what I’ll call, if you’ll pardon a neologism, the musime, pron. mew-zeem), that I don’t even regret not being able to hear the song. Knowing it’s there is enough, knowing it’s perfect to me.

Why? — Gemini (Birthday Song)

Maybe there’s a fear to this — perhaps actually hearing the song would pale in comparison to the experience I’ve imagined it into. If this were a night in any other month I’d just play it. No ceremony, just access. Now, with the music only in my head, I mythologize.

The romance of restraint is a fickle pillar.

Today: two meetings, one hundred and eight business cards to pick up at four, one deadline for tomorrow and another for a meeting two days from now. Nine business cards collected, twice as many emails to compose.

In my head, a chorus:

Cat Stevens — Matthew & Son

Some verses:

Spoon — Finer Feelings

And a song that tromps and howls:

Battles — Bad Trails

Faster and faster now, in the quiet focus. Without music to listen to, there’s nothing to look up on Wikipedia, Pitchfork, Tiny Mix Tapes, Stylus, Coke Machine Glow, MySpace, Discogs, All Music, Last.fm, or SongMeanings. So instead, I get work done.

But I do miss the post-shower rock-outs, the midday whistle-alongs, and dinner on the porch with headphones and the nighttime skyline.

Today was all right, but only because I wouldn’t really have enjoyed much music anyway. I don’t feel very well — kind of weak and tired, and my left eye keeps watering.

In the wrong mood, or when you’re too sick to feel good, nothing sounds right. But I’m a stubborn listener, and I’ll scramble through genres and playlists trying to find something appropriate. I often and wrongly assume that something ambient or instrumental will be inoffensive enough to suffice by still being music, but it becomes just as boring and annoying as everything else does to a frustrated mind.

I can give up altogether, or hope that the mood will pass more quickly with the aid of the tried and true pick-me-ups: either old favorites to which I can sing every line, or comedy.

David Brent — Spaceman

Now, in times such as these, when I can’t use music to take my mind off of the pain of life, I can at least take my mind off of the pain of not being able to use music to take my mind off of the pain of life by singing “Spaceman” to myself repeatedly.

Of course, by playing something when you’re unhappy, you run the risk of forging an indelible association of that music with that feeling. To this day, I can’t listen to the first Decemberists song I ever heard without being haunted twice over by the song’s little girl ghost and the phantom of a sick-in-bed fever in which I forced myself to start listening. The cloudy-lantern, sepia sadness of the song makes the connection all the more visceral. I imagine the abandoned dead wander in a perpetual fever, lost in the shifting sheets of purgatorial fog, muffled and hot and alone. It’s the sort of musical experience one can only hope for.

The Decemberists — Leslie Anne Levine

What happens when no tune fits? Do you just shut down the music? Or is there something that’s always comforting?

I’m starting to notice just how many routines I associate with listening to music. Sitting down at my desk, my right middle finger goes for F8, the “Play/Pause” key. Doing dishes and folding my laundry last night sounded especially quiet.

Before I fell asleep, “Fencepost” swaggered into my head. It’s a row of dusty birds, playing cards burned and plywood all akimbo, the sound of feet running. You’ll want to sing along, but you won’t know what about.

Timesbold — Fencepost

I found TimesBold (more songs) through the inimitable and charming Yeti Magazine. I’d recommend investing your attention in them both.

So far, so good.

I thought I would, but I didn’t forget — it was the first thing on my mind when I awoke. I’ve had the Turtles’ “Happy Together” in my head since then. I don’t know where it came from; I don’t even have that song in my library. I should. Jens Lekman‘s “And I Remember Every Kiss” has also been getting some serious mind-play, and it’s lasting throughout the afternoon.

Jens Lekman — And I Remember Every Kiss

What’s been playing in your head today?

As of approximately 11pm on Friday, October 26th, I have decided to not listen to any music for an entire month. No iTunes, no iPod, no iPhone, no Last.fm.

This is an experiment in many respects:

• Can I really make it for thirty days without listening to music?
• How will it feel?
• Will I be more productive?
• Can I write about music well without actually listening to it?

I’ll try to check in here once a day. I’ll leave an MP3 of what song has been running though my head the most. Listen to the songs, read my thoughts, leave your own comments and questions.

See you tomorrow.