Song Of The Week - June 3

Song Of The Week – “Last Week Me” – Polly Paulusma

The lead track on Paulusma’s latest album, Leaves from the Family Tree, is the latest stop on her road towards mastery of pop songcraft that began with “Dark Side” and “Over The Hill” off her debut album Scissors In My Pocket in 2004. Her early work had the same folky hooks and deft lyrics as her latest batch of songs, but it lacked a certain pop vitality. She sounded emotionally removed (and even a little uninterested), as if intent on reflecting from the distance; critics offered the vision of an English Joni Mitchell, which felt at first listen a perfect comparison, but it came to feel more like a critical cop-out, a kind of grasping for analogical straws. If alike in sound—acoustic guitar and thin, airy voice—they are unlike in temperament.

The crucial difference rested in Mitchell’s ability to draw on a deep well of emotion for her songs; there is something so affecting about the song "Old Man" that it can't quite be picked apart. Paulusma doesn’t have the same skill (no shame there—most don’t). On this third album, though, Paulusma seems to largely abandon the suffering singer-songwriter project, the Joni-sound-alike competition. She embraces a poppier, peppier version of herself. There is a lilt and candor to her work on this album that was not as present on her first two albums.

“Last Week Me” is the obvious highlight. From the grumbling double bass that plugs along underneath the tune to the chugging fiddles and infectious handclaps, the instrumentation demands a mention. Country-pop arrangements are fickle things; too much emphasis on one element can throw the entire production for a loop. The real strength of the song, however, is the thoughtful lyrics, which offer crucial insight into the human experience...not something you'd expect from a pop song.

At face value, the song seems obvious. Paulusma begins with the  sci-fi premise of a time-traveling machine, but, rather than investigating any of the typical fictive routes (The Middle Ages! Dinosaurs! Ford Theater!), she takes an acutely personal one:

I’d take a trip to find myself a week ago.

And if myself could see me

and hear what now-me had to say,

I’d wonder how I’d phrase it all

to make me understand.

It’s enough here to appreciate the careful wording used to differentiate between ‘selves’ (or ‘Paulusmae,’ if you prefer), but Paulusma pulls together a fascinating conflict. The understood problem is that there will always be a ‘last week me’—a curse dragging us down into a Macondo-like horror of circularity. Paulusma’s final thought in that verse is especially valuable: how could we ever convey our short-sightedness to a past self? Everything always seems so hunky-dory when it’s happening! The song gets even more interesting when Paulusma digs deeper into the collusion between past and present selves by shifting the conversation towards her future self:

If I were a time traveler,

I’d write myself a cryptic song

and play it on the radio

one morning.

And in that song I’d tell me

to hold you tight and never let you go,

to grab my gun and climb up on my rooftop

and fire out a warning.

And last week might have stopped washing the dishes,

might have covered you in kisses

before I wiped my hands dry.

In this final verse, “time traveler” no longer signifies only travel into the past; it suggests travel into the future. As she notes, the song is “cryptic” in the sense that it could read as if she were addressing only her past self, when she’s actually contacting her future self as well.

With this song, Paulusma observes how when we pull out the personal historian card, telling ourselves with backwards-looking frowns, that “last week me” was stupid and short-sighted, we’re always implicitly (and often unknowingly) addressing our future selves, the selves whom will have the same choices again, the same dishes to drop and moments to cash in, that we need to be different. Paulusma’s song, which looks as if it might dance off into an infinity of ‘last week mes’ (will she ever hear the warning shot?!), seems to know that to understand the problem is to escape it. Once we recognize the plight of ‘last week me,’ that person is free to disappear. 

Do I Detect The Hint Of A Smile? : A Review Of Sun Kil Moon's "Among The Leaves"

Some of his fans will be angry. Mark Kozelek’s latest album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker, recently-released Among The Leaves, sees Kozelek keeping his now ubiquitous nylon-string guitar and Spanish-derived picking patterns (with the obvious exception of “King Fish”), but exchanging his trademark melancholy—indeed, his morose depression—for some humor and warmth. Kozelek’s entire discography, from his early work with Red House Painters to his quirky releases under his own name to his recent work as Sun Kil Moon, has dipped deep in the wells of sadness and anger, only ever occasionally lightened by a burst of sunshine, as in “Michigan” off Red House Painters’ Old Ramon or “You Are My Sun” off Sun Kil Moon’s Admiral Fell Promises.

Among The Leaves, however, shines with evidence of warmth, humor, and a surprising lack of pathos. Of course, long-time fans will find their share of depression and angst among these 17 songs; I suspect Kozelek would have a tough time trying to craft an album this long (which clocks in, by the way, at over an hour) without an ounce of sadness. A fan of Kozelek’s past work myself, I will admit that the prospect of him mining a humorous, less depressing vein frightened me.

After all, one of the things I admired about his work—“Heron Blue,” “Glenn Tipton,” and “Have You Forgotten,” to name a few favorites—was how readily he is willing to tackle the ugly stuff. The verse about Eleanor in “Glenn Tipton,” about the death of an old woman, who ran a coffee shop and served police officers burning the midnight oil, mixes an episode of sadness with deep personal insight. His calm, thoughtful stance on sad topics was something that I always admired. Even though a full album of his music tends to send me off into a downward spiral of sad thoughts, he manages the neat feat of combining all this sadness with a hopeful eye and a forward-looking spirit.

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But enough about Kozelek’s past work. Our concern here is the recent Among The Leaves, whether or not it is actually “humorous” and whether or not that humor works. As it turns out (breathe a sigh of relief, fans), a lot of the humor is glancing; it’s the quirky details that tickle his fancy the most. There is nothing here that could even loosely termed a novelty song. A look at the track-listing gives a quick overview of his general comedic sensibility. With song titles as long, in some cases, as those in Sufjan Stevens’s belabored and abandoned ‘States Project’ (“A Conjunction of Drones…,” etc.), including “I Know It’s Pathetic But That Was the Greatest Night of My Life,” “Not Much Rhymes With Everything’s Awesome At All Times,” and the mega-mouthful “The Moderately Talented Yet Attractive Young Woman vs. The Exceptionally Talented Yet Not So Attractive Middle Aged Man,” it is clear that the album's humor won't be the kind to slap us upside the head.

The other moments of humor are often equally subdued, such as the track sequencing of “Track Number 8” (which I hopefully mistook as a train track number out of respect for Kozelek’s usual attention to detail). As it turns out, the song’s title and final track sequence are a joke built into the song itself: “Well, I wrote this one and I know it ain’t great / We’ll probably sequence it track number eight.” At another point in the song, Kozelek explains that there are often not more than ten songs on most albums (having knowingly set it at Track 11 on this one), because “it’s a chore / to write half a dozen, some guys lay back / and rest on their laurels like lazy, old hacks.” It’s a bit awkward but still revelatory to hear Kozelek exercising such clear self-deprecation; he’s willing, with a sly wink, to acknowledge that this  album is at least partly the work of a "lazy, old hack." 

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Most of these songs read like diary entries—not the tortured diary entries of songs like “Heron Blue”—but often accumulations of daily observations, such as the travelogue "UK Blues." But Kozelek's loose lyrical attitude on this album is best captured by the first track, “I Know It’s Pathetic…,” which describes a romantic encounter in Kozelek’s green room after a show: “her eyes trailed off / to bottles and objects around the room / my backup guitar, a tray of food.” 

Most importantly, the humor of some of these songs and their overall effect—meaning the absence of an emotional wallop to the degree of “Carry Me Ohio”—forces one to question what is valuable about Kozelek’s music. Throughout his career, critics and listeners have been putting his lyrics in the spotlight. Sure, he has an ear for arrangements, some decent guitar-picking skills, and a keen sense of subtle melody, but the lyrics have always received the lion's share of attention. I've felt much the same way. For that reason, in previous records, it’s been hard to tease out exactly how much I appreciate those other aspects of his work. With his music paired to less-substantial lyrics, the rest of his talent is allowed to shine.

My chief complaint about Sun Kil Moon’s last album, the mournful Admiral Fell Promises, was its utter lack of aural diversity. I’m sure that Kozelek is a master in concert (I’ve never seen him), but the live, solo arrangement of the album treated his material unfairly; its sheer uniformity, just Kozelek and his nylon-string guitar, played distinctly to its disadvantage. For me, this fifth album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker was set up to be a deal-breaker; Kozelek could not continue in the unadorned vein and maintain my admiration. Thankfully, Kozelek has eased the "solo" experience with occasional percussion, harmony lines, some strings, and even artful touches like the pinging xylophone in “Sunshine In Chicago.” Of course, he maintains the solo aesthetic on many of the tracks, but the inclusion of further instrumentation lifts a huge burden off the listener.

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The question still remains: what is the value of this album? How should it be weighed against the rest of his discography? Personally, I’ve decided to consider it not so much as an album proper as a collection of rejects and misfits, as other critics have also done. However, it's important to note that these songs are not rejects in the traditional sense. These songs are not worse than his other work; they’re simply different. It's not that they didn't make the cut on a certain album; it's that they were never even written for any of his past albums.


Unlike much of his other work, these songs provide us with a look into Kozelek’s day-to-day experience, especially his life out on the road. Usually, his songs are slaved over; you know from a single listen of “Katy Song” that it was not written in a five-minute burst of creativity. Some of the songs on Among The Leaves, however, clearly were. There are childish rhymes and silly wordings that wouldn’t have even made it through the doorframe of a studio on other Kozelek albums. These songs are the odds and ends that would fascinate a Kozelek biographer (I assume some hardcore hipster out there is already well ahead of me on that one…), providing an essential avenue of inquiry into his lyrical process. 

What all this is meant to say is that some fans will hate this album because it’s by Kozelek and other fans will love it for the same reason. If you’re not already a fan—don’t bother. Start with something else, something more brooding and 'slowcore.' I’ve linked “Grace Cathedral Park," from Red House Painters I, below. When you make your way around to Among The Leaves, you'll be in for a pleasant surprise. 

Turning A New Leaf...

Oh, Pueblo Waltz readers…I have not forgotten you! I have simply been very neglectful. Funny that I used to throw myself into fits over missing the odd Saturday Songs post or the shortchanged two-post week... I have my excuses—Madrid, Paris, cross-continental travel, and family among them—but I’ll glaze over those for the moment. What I'm really back to say is that I’ve made a crucial decision to revamp a few of Pueblo Waltz’s mission.

You’ll notice—as of half an hour ago—that the pseudo-mission statement below my header has changed. It once described Pueblo Waltz as a “blog about the arts: music, film, and literature, occasionally delving into photography and the more visual arts.” As you can now see, I’ve elevated photography and painting into the ‘normal’ list of discussed topics, having removed the thoughtful tag “occasionally delving into.”

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This change is the product of a long and fruitful time abroad in Scotland—thanks partly to new surroundings, partly to my visiting some of the more famous museums in the world (the Louvre and Prado among them), but mostly to my friend Josh (if you’re friends with me on Facebook, check you my profile picture; it’s a brief sketch of me done by Josh).

A painting student at Kansas University and also abroad for a semester in Edinburgh, specifically at the Edinburgh College of Art (connected to the University of Edinburgh), Josh was, of course, so much more than just an ‘artist,’ but his effect on my critical outlook had everything to do with his unique perspective into art and the problems and possibilities it creates.

That’s a rather vague reason to offer for why Pueblo Waltz has shifted into a full arts blog (still with the exception of dance, about which I’m still clueless…perhaps Leah can offer some insight into ballet at some point?), which might only serve to invigorate its already scatterbrained tendencies. (What other blog offers thoughts on the problematic nature of digital album track-listing and angry asides about why characters on Arrested Development are the best and worst?!)

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In addition to those broader changes, there is another change on a smaller scale that will shift the weekly appearance of Pueblo Waltz. I’ve decided, after some serious thought (me staring at the ceiling in my room), to phase out the “Saturday Songs” series and replace it with something more succinct—“Song of the Week.” Rather than grill readers with five songs and all-too-brief thoughts on them, I’ve decided that it would be worthwhile to pick one song and really dig into it. 


Of course, I will not entirely phase out potential ‘lists’ in the future, similar to the alternative Christmas songs post from last year. If you have questions, concerns, suggestions, complaints, humorous asides, send me an email at tjcpoet@gmail.com! 

Pueblo Abroad: Journal Entry #5

Before I launch into the next installment of my long-delayed travel journal, I should apologize…I’ve been wildly inconsistent over the past few weeks… BUT—there are plenty of good reasons! Numbering among them are a second trip to Copenhagen, a few days in London, the wonderful but totally distracting presence of my parents in Edinburgh, and then one hellacious English essay about indigenous speech in imperial adventure texts. You know—fun stuff.

“Excuses, excuses,” you all quietly mumble at your computer screens. Yes—of course. And I sadly cannot promise that the next two weeks look any more hopeful in terms of Pueblo Waltz output. However, I can promise that this summer will see a definite renaissance of Pueblo Waltzing—so look to the future!

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Part 5: Werther – Standing Room in the Wien Staatoper

My first opera experience was wonderful…and painful. For the small price of €4 and two hours sitting in line, Ben, Adam, and I found ourselves inside the Vienna Staatoper (State Opera) an hour before the show, with a scrappy old woman telling us what we were (and were not) allowed to do in both German and English. No coats, no flash photography, no photography during the show, no conversation during the show. It was a little like elementary school or summer camp—made all the stranger by being surrounded by people ages 18 to 80 (no kidding, a man at least 70 years of age stood behind me). The standing room area was located at the far back of the opera, just above the orchestra floor seating. Set up in ‘tiered standing,’ we were made to slide in between the dividing railings—five or six to each cramped standing section.

I’ve been to concerts before. The same is probably true for you. Hell, my feet burned by the end of the first Drive-By Truckers show I went to in Montclair, NJ. All told, I spent some four hours on foot that night. It gets to you—those bodily pains—while you’re trying to enjoy yourself. At least when you’re standing at work, behind a cashier or a grill, you can bitch about your feet and feel embattled about the entire experience. You don’t exactly want to feel embattled about that concert you’re attending, though.

The problem with my opera experience was that most people—myself included—tend to feel embattled about opera from the very start. It’s not exactly like you’re singing (screaming) along to “The Devil Don’t Stay.” But the experience is supposed to cure us of that inclination. In the 21^st-century, opera is the opposite of populist art; the usual view is that it’s an exercise in elitism. But, I had heard, all I needed to do was actually go to an opera and then I would understand. As much as people make fun of opera and deride it as a form, not many of us have actually been to one.

That said, I had put more time than most into giving an opera a chance before actually attending one several weeks ago. A few summers ago, I went through a pathetic opera phase. I qualify it as pathetic only because it wasn’t really much of a ‘phase.’ I listened to a few operas in toto—Verdi’s Aida and Puccini’s La Bohème among them—but mostly I listened to a smattering of arias and overtures. It was mostly an embarrassing foray into the world of classical music, which I, so insistent an admirer of straight-up folk music, found more than a little difficult to handle.

But there I was—almost entirely without any opera experience or knowledge—ready to endure 3½ hours of an opera that I literally knew nothing about. An opera, as I shortly found out, was not simply a physical experience (standing for 3+ hours), but also a mental one. I missed out on a lot of things; I suspect repeat viewings are necessary. I cannot even begin to imagine how opera critics do their job; there are too many things to keep track of…I’ll go into more detail in the next installment.