1) Dashboard Confessional, “All the Truth That I Can Tell” / I’ve gone on quite the rollercoaster with the songs of Chris Carrabba (is it any surprise?). I inhaled Dashboard songs early on in college, identifying with their bleeding-heart-on-sleeve romanticism; I eventually ripped the patch off my jacket, assuming they were for a former, unhappier time. With Carrabba’s latest, I was heartened to hear a continually developing sense of songcraft. But not only that. At 41 (Carrabba is five years older than me), he exists like a bigger brother, showing that even as we mature, settle down, find happiness, the same seeds of yearning and aspiration can fill up our lungs. They just sound and feel a bit different.
2) Gang of Youths, “angel in realtime” / I owe this week of my life to the latest from the earnest Australian rockers. At a moment when I feel run over by everyone and everything (myself included), their expanding, then-contracting, then-expanding songs sounded like the inside of my head. And the band’s unapologetic interest in softening its heart (even or especially against a backdrop of madness) rings so very true.
3) Robert Glasper, “Black Radio III” / When Glasper is on his A game (or even his B+ game), he rates among our most engaging musical visionaries. He brings those elevated instincts, on a spiritual and musical sequel to previous “Black Radio” efforts. Gathering company such as Killer Mike, Q-Tip, Esperanza Spalding, Meshell Ndegeocello and more, Glasper crafts a supremely soulful affair. The groove sounds effortless; but every lyric and note lines up in the perfect place. Nothing is wasted here; everything sings and soars.
4) Superchunk, “Wild Loneliness” / Among indie-rock’s most influential outfits, Superchunk just quietly (not so quiet musically, but as hype machines go) tends to its business, expands its sound and proves its commitment to never settling for anything but the best. The band’s latest features such texture and thoughtfulness, yielding small but meaningful surprises throughout.
5) Ariana Benson, “No. 2 (No. 7 and No. 2): oil on canvas: Mark Rothko: 1951” and “Hands Up, Don’t—” for Tinderbox Poetry Journal / Any poem which nods to Rothko is an immediate read for me; the first of two Tinderbox entries penned by Benson is exquisite and rhythmic, gathering color, nature and life up in conversation.
The second, “Hands Up, Don’t,” sears the soul, tying the personal and social together as it considers fraught gestures that perhaps shouldn’t be as fraught. The poem begins:
Maybe I carry animals in my pockets.
And where you imagine I’ve tucked a barrel’s nose,
lies instead the wet, huffing muzzle of a beast
untamed by my fleshwarm dark. A hunger I thumb
through all of taxonomy to identify: fanged
as a piranha, madder than an orphaned cub. When I disappear
my hands into those twin wilds, they reemerge
claw-mauled and dripping. How delicious, this agony
like pressing a bruise to deeper blue and calling it night.