13 January 2007
tell your friends...
Words by Sean Moeller // Illustration by Ryan Baker
Something popped up today, don’t remember where it was or what it was about, but it reminded me of what I’ve been trying to articulate about this stupid good Snowbeast album. It was a piece of writing about how secrets don’t matter. Whatever that means. The point was, who cares? Why keep secrets? They only mean something when they’re out in the open and they usually only cause problems. It’s almost the same thing with love and socialization on Snowbeast. “Serious” almost takes a high school longing/crush approach to the subject of love, where if you feel it so deeply, if you want that other person badly enough, that’s all that there needs to be (it’s the flint, the tinder and the furious rubbing) to bring two people together like iron filings to the north and south poles of a magnet. But once there, you’re on your own. Fuck if there isn’t a general undercurrent on this album that makes it absolutely feel like we’re not in this together. We never have been and the stakes are unfavorable that we ever will be. “Saturday People” begins with the wonderful line, “Moving in units and dying alone,” suggesting that when we boil these lives of ours down, they amount to a whole lot of untangled and unconnected circumstance. It’s a solitary existence, no matter how surrounded we are. Think of all the times when you’re alone with yourself and you get those thoughts that remind you of that. You think about how many people are out there and there’s not another person inside that head of yours at that single moment. It’s not a morbid thought to acknowledge. It can be comforting. It can be comforting to realize that even when others may be depending on you, they still have to — naturally — depend more on themselves. It’s liberating. He sings about this place or this thought process (I think it’s a place or a good book) called Holy Collaboroo (this spelling must be wrong — maybe Luke will correct me) and it sounds great. It’s a place where clowns where black to the beach. Sounds lonely and delightful this time of the year.
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