Promises, Promises...check out my new 'Dø.

I'm going to post more often. For real. Your pleas, emails, late night phone calls, and mail bombs have not gone unnoticed. A guy who's a media junkie should have more to say on the subject. So I'm going to try and do that.

Recently on a film blog I peruse I stumbled across a passing mention of a French band called The Dø. That's pronounced "doe" as in Do-Re-Mi. Yeah, they're named after the musical scale. How precious is that?



Anyway, like all good French bands, they sing in English for that full international appeal (e.g. Phoenix), though one song is in FInnish, the first language of the singer.

I'll save myself the trouble and link to a very good write-up I was able to Google:

The Dø - A Mouthful

There are comparisons to Bjork, M.I.A., The Cardigans, and Blonde Redhead, and I guess the impressive thing is that this band managed to touch on all of these theoretical influences while still carving out something distinct. There are some songs on their debut album (titled ironically, A Mouthful) that are much more delicate and stripped-down than the vibe those names might conjure up (check the banjo sound on "Stay").

Anyway, if you go to YouTube and do a search for "the do a mouthful" you should be able to find most of the songs on this album for your streaming pleasure. Here are some highlights:

Playground Hustle

At Last

Stay

Queen Dot Kong

Song For Lovers

I was able to acquire the entire album, but you'll have to do some hunting as it hasn't been released in the United States yet. They also have yet to tour outside of Europe. I've been listening to them pretty incessantly the last few weeks (along with Vampire Weekend, who don't really need my promo help at this point), and I'm expecting a pretty big breakthrough for them at some point. Join me and beat the bandwagon, or maybe we'll just have to organize a trip to France to see them play live.

Here's their first official video:

On My Shoulders

And most importantly, their MySpace page:

myspace.com/thedoband

"COVER STORY"

Espionage-a-trois:
bermuda triangled
off the map
a pajama’ed catnap
waterproof wills
and airtight appetites
unfurl the sail
when the wind bends to bite

our correspondence coarse
kicked in the connect shin
minor bruises in major battles
are permanent pinches
like brands upon cattles

have you herd
the swallowed suffix
of each dirty word?
her curses come
under rays and ribbons
sent with sweet scent
ex postmarked the spot--
a covert corner of the world
where leaves are curled
but not long enough to hide
a layaway who lied

compass in a bucket
and see if by luck it
will lead you to bounties
of blackberried treasure;
when you hear my cry
with sextant you’ll measure
the place where your anchor
will incur the end of the line.

...and some pictures

Forgive the Coveyesque nature of some of these, but of course one can't hold a monopoly on cell phone cam neo-realism...

(click for larger versions)

Better late then--never mind.

And what do I have to show for it?

Not much.

As for this next bit, I was on a plane. So you can't complain (that makes two Nirvana references, if you're counting):


MISSED HER SAND, MAN

whisper powder in a sleeping ear:
the words that taunt and haunt
the corners of the slumber mill;
faith burrowed, brow furrowed
in a taciturn toss ‘n’ turn

on a rain-rinsed morning
it’s goodbye to bottle-nosed notions
and past-due date potions,
tho’ a linger of maudlin malady remains,
resistant to elixir’s refrain;
so summon the sawbones,
swing a bell rope side t’side,
quit the calm from the clapper,
blow out a reveille
for the noontime napper

pack a pail o’ prudence
'ere you sing a song o’ sixth-sense;
as minnows grow to Mopey Dicks,
the eggs will soon be citizens.

...and the straight poop.

No explanation necessary.

Waste of Chicago

These were taken last weekend when Alexis visited us during her cross-country train trip. As usual when her and Covey are in the same place at the same time, poop tends to be a frequent topic. But before that stuff hits the fan, enjoy these more halcyon moments from our oh-so-touristy excursions to Chicago's famous summer food and music festival, a sampling of deep dish pizza from Gino's East, and The Museum of Science and industry.

Man R. from Mars vs. Bertha Venus

Well, faithful readers, what may seem like a bit of diarrhea after a prolonged constipation is actually a fairly long-tinkered-with little piece, summing up much of what's been on the mind recently (as far as artistic musings are concerned). By no means is this a final word on any of the involved subjects, some of which I've discussed pretty lengthily on the blog. While I've bestowed what is likely my most obnoxious title to date on this creation (apologies to Mr. Boticelli), be sure that underneath the handful of puns is some meat to chew, which you'll have to do mostly unaided, at least for starters.

One quick note I'll share, is on the phrase "three on a match", found below, which is old-fashioned enough to likely be foreign to most modern readers. It's a superstition that says it's bad luck to light three cigarettes with one match, and though there are numerous rumors as to its origin, most place it around World War I. Supposedly the enemy could spot your location by the lighting of the first, aim the rifle by the second, and shoot the person lighting the third. Some rumors claim the whole saying was invented by a match manufacturer so he could sell more of his product. So we have a superstition that arose from either war or capitalism. As we move on to more ethereal matters, be warned that these two forces may poke their heads out at some point, as they always do, world without end.

UPDATED NOTE: It was only after rereading this a few times that I noticed that within this abstract battle of the sexes there appear to be some references to warfare, and economic matters. Of course, true to my nature, there's a bit of a slacker/defeatist quip at the end. I assure you that all of this was unconscious, and purely a manifestation of how all these seemingly unrelated matters are connected in the laissez-faire market of the mind.

***


MAN R. MARS vs. BERTHA VENUS

parade of motley bands around the blonde,
wrapped in streamers like a lace-stitched shoe;
pell-mell partials swarm this swan,
pearl harborin’ somethin’ secret--
a wad o’ wisdom ‘tween the teeth;
tempest in a d-cup,
busom and then some;
mind your pleas and cues,
three on a match made overused,
once entrenched with a
monkey’d ‘round wrench,
now back on the boneheap
while skins and cynics
reticent to give a red cent
cough up a long
and dwindling lode,
larceny in dey hearts
and bedlam on de brain
roll out a rare refrain:
If I Had A Hammock,
I’d Hang.


***