Opinions are a conduit, but a conduit of what?
The best of the things I wrote for Paper Thin Walls:
BARR - "The Song Is The Single"
From Summary (5RC)
Dancing Word // February 20, 2007
7.5
"You make the record at night, 'cause everyone knows that rock 'n' roll is the language of night; but this got made in the day; it was bright." There are unstated questions here: why does Barr choose day over night? Is it a choice or is the night simply closed to him, a lost language? Does it belong to someone else, the speech of a current Beyoncé or a long-ago Jagger, but out of Barr's range? Has Barr gone into retreat and turned off his romance and adventure, or is he realistically taking into account the conditions of his own adventure--not a shadow adventure of dark and daring hoo-hah, but a new one, a real one?
"You just hear so much and you see so much and you hear so much and you see so much." This contains questions as well. What is a song? Is it a conduit, a short form, everything condensed, a quick message, easy to share? ("A slogan versus a book, a single versus a record.") But what gets left out? A conduit of what? To where? To whom?
The recording sounds lo-fi, home-fi, with a voice that can't sing properly so does a sing-song talk, a jiu jitsu move, trying to turn weakness into strength. But Barr risks fetishizing weakness, passing it off as integrity. He travels three-quarters of the way into strength, but he seems to be asking if this is all he can do or if he's settling for too little. The self-questioning is admirable, but he does settle for too little, and this song dribbles out three-quarters of the way through, when the bass slows down. That's my opinion, at any rate, but I'm tired of opinions. Opinions are a conduit, but a conduit of what? Some people put forth opinions and opinions are all they have and opinions are all they are, and opinions are made in the evening or in the morning, on the floor or on the desk, but the opinions go forth at night and dance with other opinions, boy opinions and girl opinions, and they dance and then a sudden shock as a boy opinion goes, "You're looking at my girl" and shoves another opinion, who pulls a knife, and the first opinion uses his leather jacket as a shield and a whip, the second opinion slices with the knife, the jacket then whips across his face and brings blood, opinions shriek and rush into the night, pile into cars and stretch limos, peel out, scatter, a van pulls alongside the limo, fires a burst of opinions, one of which hits another opinion in the neck, an artery, blood bursting up into the windshield, the van speeds off into the next day's newscast, a listener ties his shoe and has a dull little opinion about the stupid, pointless waste of life, opinions move onto the morning streets, pale mundane opinions about the best route to work and the price of gas, opinions in the supermarket about how long milk will last before spoiling, about the checkout girl's brown hair, how it goes well with the store smock, opinion during the walk home as to whether the weight of the groceries will aggravate the tendinitis in his left wrist, then glancing down, flecks of maroon on the sidewalk, dead opinions, unmatched flowers a foot away in a spontaneous, makeshift memorial, a pang of sadness for the loss of life but also a counterpang of nostalgia for long ago when his opinions danced dangerously in the night and drew blood.
--FRANK KOGAN, Paper Thin Walls, February 5, 2007
BARR - "The Song Is The Single"
From Summary (5RC)
Dancing Word // February 20, 2007
7.5
"You make the record at night, 'cause everyone knows that rock 'n' roll is the language of night; but this got made in the day; it was bright." There are unstated questions here: why does Barr choose day over night? Is it a choice or is the night simply closed to him, a lost language? Does it belong to someone else, the speech of a current Beyoncé or a long-ago Jagger, but out of Barr's range? Has Barr gone into retreat and turned off his romance and adventure, or is he realistically taking into account the conditions of his own adventure--not a shadow adventure of dark and daring hoo-hah, but a new one, a real one?
"You just hear so much and you see so much and you hear so much and you see so much." This contains questions as well. What is a song? Is it a conduit, a short form, everything condensed, a quick message, easy to share? ("A slogan versus a book, a single versus a record.") But what gets left out? A conduit of what? To where? To whom?
The recording sounds lo-fi, home-fi, with a voice that can't sing properly so does a sing-song talk, a jiu jitsu move, trying to turn weakness into strength. But Barr risks fetishizing weakness, passing it off as integrity. He travels three-quarters of the way into strength, but he seems to be asking if this is all he can do or if he's settling for too little. The self-questioning is admirable, but he does settle for too little, and this song dribbles out three-quarters of the way through, when the bass slows down. That's my opinion, at any rate, but I'm tired of opinions. Opinions are a conduit, but a conduit of what? Some people put forth opinions and opinions are all they have and opinions are all they are, and opinions are made in the evening or in the morning, on the floor or on the desk, but the opinions go forth at night and dance with other opinions, boy opinions and girl opinions, and they dance and then a sudden shock as a boy opinion goes, "You're looking at my girl" and shoves another opinion, who pulls a knife, and the first opinion uses his leather jacket as a shield and a whip, the second opinion slices with the knife, the jacket then whips across his face and brings blood, opinions shriek and rush into the night, pile into cars and stretch limos, peel out, scatter, a van pulls alongside the limo, fires a burst of opinions, one of which hits another opinion in the neck, an artery, blood bursting up into the windshield, the van speeds off into the next day's newscast, a listener ties his shoe and has a dull little opinion about the stupid, pointless waste of life, opinions move onto the morning streets, pale mundane opinions about the best route to work and the price of gas, opinions in the supermarket about how long milk will last before spoiling, about the checkout girl's brown hair, how it goes well with the store smock, opinion during the walk home as to whether the weight of the groceries will aggravate the tendinitis in his left wrist, then glancing down, flecks of maroon on the sidewalk, dead opinions, unmatched flowers a foot away in a spontaneous, makeshift memorial, a pang of sadness for the loss of life but also a counterpang of nostalgia for long ago when his opinions danced dangerously in the night and drew blood.
--FRANK KOGAN, Paper Thin Walls, February 5, 2007
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