89.3 The Current

89.3 The Current is a fucking breath of fresh air. It's exactly what one would want from Satellite radio without the burden of cost: no continuous, devolving playlists, that cycle into themselves repeatedly like mating, hermaphroditic worms, or lecherous lawyers in an elephant walk; it has no ads, the DJ's love the music they spin, and while some songs do repeat over time, you cannot truly compare the multiple spins of the Arcade Fire, or the Shins, or even Atmosphere, in six hour periods to that of enless repetitions of I wanna Slit My Wrist When I Listen to this Muck I mean Hoobastank I mean that band that's going to be playing for some hobo's wedding reception in a year. And by Hobo, I mean that smelly dude whose eyes you didn't meat as you walked off with your two dollar short cappuccino.

I really wish I lived in the Twin Cities. Sure, listening to The Current is like stealing some white hipster's Ipod that his Mom bought him for Christmas. But he's an older hipster. Wiser. And his Ipod holds about five hundred more gigs.

And losing all the commercials about The Big Lot car sales? About how Lazer 103.3 will be at Daytonas, where the hottest girls in town will gladly bend down and pick up that dollar bill you dropped? Or just go ahead and listen to the commercial for Big Earl's, where every Tuesday is Amateur Night!

Listening to an online radio stream is like dating over the internet. Sure, it gets you through the lonely nights, but darnit, some days you just want to hold someone.

And anyone who plays Seu Jorge, My Bloody Valentine, Elliott Smith, the Shins, and the Olympic Hopefuls is worth hugging. Daily.

PIcaresque

Three months from now America will be awash in rogues and spies sung out in sweet, trepid falsetto by Colin Meloy(and by some woman, beautiful and pale no doubt, skinny like a model with her eyes all painted black, whose name I haven't yet learned). Of course, these days three months is an easy thing to time travel thanks to the Internets(one must be for Time Travel, used by rascals and rogues to theft out the future of music; thrift store hipsters in a Ford Taurus instead of a Delorean driven by the coolest of the cool, Marty McFly).

The Decemberists are one of those bands who get shoved aside; loved by those who love them, ignored by the rest. Or perhaps you know one of their songs(Billy Liar has his hands in his pockets/Staring over at the neighbor's knickers down/he's got his knickers down) and perhaps you just think of them as those shanty music players, those pirates of indie pop, each and everyone with peg legs(great to play drums with) and strangled parrots stapled to their shoulders.And perhaps you hated them for that.

Perhaps you heard their songs and thought it was all paltry, all those meaningless words and faux nostalgia schtick. Well, Picaresque ain't for you.

Perhaps you love the Decemberists and their graceful lyrics, which stray far from Montana, far from the 21st century, far from your ears as they sail into the breach of your canals. Perhaps they invade your dreams with images of down knickers, soldiers and architects, ancient Celtic Myths. Perhaps you love that dancing according jangle that makes you sway like the bow of a ship.

Well, Picaresque should be your masterpiece, and all it takes is one song. The 9 minute epic "The Mariner's Revenge Song" is already the best song of 2005. Is there a better band out there at writing long, epic songs? And not the drone for twenty minutes into one droning fugue only to burst out into attacking guitars. But in near perfect pop songs that tell sharp, witty novels that are quite simply, fun.Has there ever been a more perfect moment in music than when the Boy's mother cries out:

"Find him/bind him/tie him to a pole/and break his fingers/to splinters"

I'm sure there has been. But that plea, tossed out over the waves and from a death bed, finds that inner pirate in me every time. I search the eyes of those I pass to see if they maybe a rake or a roustabout.

Sadly, I'm a Temp for a Mortgage company; everyone I work with is a roustabout.

Come March 22nd, 2005, and one of the best albums of the year will be released. I'll be buying it. And I don't even have some older mistress to suck dry.