A Brief History of Everything Ever

And now, something exactly the same, yet totally different.

2009-09-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this a few months ago as an exercise in dicking around with words. More importantly, it is the first time I've ever looked at something I've written after a few months and actually liked what I had made, unfinished though it may be. Ironic as all get out.)

Sometimes I just want to write, but my vocabulary is waning. I feel daily the strains of the anchor tugging from below, pulling against the ebb tide, so close to shore, yet so futile. I’m not getting pulled under, but I’m stuck on that goddamn reef. I must kill to free myself from the doldrums. Throw the horse off the boat and see what happens. Maybe the fucker will chew the rope off and the surf will deliver me to land.

But again, misplaced imagery and stale metaphors cannot help me escape the fact that I simply cannot write the way I want. I bob in the wake of idleness. Even lethargy seems like a destination at this point.

I wonder sometimes how I manage. Fortune (that wicked mistress of the worthless) keeps the torch in the lighthouse burning, and I keep Her close for She is my only ally against the barren horizon, which threatens to suffocate me with its immensity. The clouds hover with hands above my throat. Grab me, you devils.

They won’t. The bastards wouldn’t dare fuck with Fortune’s darling. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Lady Luck was a bitch to begin with. So they cry instead and the sky falls down on the quarterdeck; a cockroach dinner is interrupted as a deluge sweeps through the crags of the planks, driving the father through the threshold and into the sea. The lucky bastard will probably float on his back until his feelers caress the corroded sand of Catalina. Or he will sink like a brick. I couldn’t tell you, I have never watched a roach in water.

The waling winds coalesce with the weeping thunderhead, begetting the squall, and the tempest impregnates the sea. A growth amasses at the base of the nubilous sky, a faint glimmer at first, then an ominous distension of the sea.

Those assholes have teamed up. Do they not understand the repercussions of such an assault?

But the horizon continues to grow above the mast, while my tugs at the helm prove a futile gesture. A flash fills the air and the sky lets out a thunderous laugh at my silly obstinacy.

You fools, I am the protectorate.

But before the thought finishes, a potent fog engulfs the lighthouse of Fortune, and as quickly as it took God to create light, these devils take it away.

De dolore.

2009-08-25T06:09:00.000-07:00

Est nulla supera veritas quam dolore. Solo per dolore sensus simplex declaratio sunt cuius vir vero sit. Patefacit amorem, odium, cupiditatem, metum. Nullum venenum potentior, atque nullus sensus gravior, quoniam dolor numquam dediscor; obruens dolum et fecundans naturam, animam ut olim coporem diluvit. Cum illi stirpes summum perveniunt, luce diei aluntur.

Modus hominis non est in facultate sua tolerare dolorem, at in facultate discere ab eo. Nam dolor neglecta dolorem iutam procreat. Dolor amoris interiti procreare potest condurati basii virum, sed non debet. Dolor amicitiae proditae procreare potest frigidi complexus virum, sed non debet. Est eiusmodi etiam vocare virum postea?

Atque fortunatus qui vulnerem sentiat ante ferrum transfigat ut nauclerus tunc. Videns tortatum fluctuandum in mente, cum quoque vulnere conivit et cum nauta animam retinuit in concentu. Inde, cum plure audentia quam verbi vehere possunt, nauclerus clamavit,

“Striga!”

There is no greater truth than pain. Only through pain can emotions be pure expressions of who the man truly is. It throws open the love, the hate, the desires and the fears. There is no drug more potent, nor feeling more crucial, for pain is never forgotten; it floods the soul as it once did the body, drowning all artifices and fertilizing the essence. And when those stems reach the surface, they are fed by the light of day.

The measure of the man lies not in his ability to cope with this pain, but rather, in his ability to learn from it. For pain ignored begets pain indulged. The ache of love lost may father a man of calloused kiss, but it must not. The sting of friendship betrayed may father a man of cold embrace, but it must not. Can such a man still be called a man thereafter?

And blessed be he who feels the cut before the blade pierces his own skin as the captain did just then. Watching the tortured man drifting in and out of consciousness, he flinched with each new wound and held his breath in unison with the sailor. Then, with more courage than words could convey, the captain cried,

“Stop!”

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est victus meus.
I am the sailor. The light is my sustenance.

O Male Vire

2009-08-19T01:48:00.000-07:00

Animo adflicto, denique dolor corporem superavit et nauta ab nebula spectrorum cinctus erat. Omnes gesserunt faciem recognitam, et cum aciebus cordem inciderunt. Sciebat hos bene; sui ores aquam notam in palpebra. Illo momento sapere salem in lingua et sentire oppressum in pectore poterat. Et chorus spectrorum cecinerunt:

“O male vire, te mors sequitur, calamitas ducet. Nos, sepultos spes puerilis gloriae, contorquemus fundo maris, nam nulla requies in vestigiis tuis, nulla pax in caede tuo.

O male vire, ita carnem respondeat animum, unus cicatrix per quamque vitam correptam. Nunc sceleres insigniunt; superbia tua libido tua ferocitas tua proferunt ab falsa virtute.

O male vire, nunc custodes angeli sumus. Cum umbonibus tuos adversos protegemus; cum ferris concidemus. Sumus occulos caeli et te cadere videbimus. Deus insidiam tuam donet, nam castigabimus.

Sceleres reddita sint, tamen cicatrices manebunt.”

Deinde, gesta adflatu maris, nebula refugit; solus metus et serpentus reliquus.

His spirit broken, the pain finally overcame his body and he was enveloped in a cloud of apparitions. Each wore a familiar face, and with piercing gazes, they cut into his heart. He knew these men well; their faces were watermarks on his eyelids. For that moment, he could taste the salt on his tongue and feel the pressure on his breast. And then the spectral chorus sang:

“O wicked man, death follows you while calamity leads. We, the sunken dreams of childhood ambition, writhe on the sea floor, for there is no rest in your wake, no peace in your murder.

So wicked man, may your flesh answer to your soul, one scar for each life stolen. Now, your crimes mark you; your hubris, your lust, your arrogance are revealed through your false courage.

O wicked man, we are your guardian angels now. With our shields we will protect your enemies; with our swords we will cut you down. We are the eyes of heaven and we will watch you fall. May God forgive your treacheries, for we will punish them.

Your sins may be repaid, but your scars will remain.”

Then, carried by the wind, the fog receded; only fear and the serpent remained.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est memoria mea.

I am the sailor. The light is my memory.

"Ut sit magna, tamen certe lenta ira deorum est." -Juvenal

2009-08-06T18:04:00.000-07:00

Sicut dentibus virum in praeda aget serpens, cruentante hamo in nautam explevit tortor dolore non imaginato; plaga vulnusque numquam gravis adfatim nescire, tantummodo et corporem et animum vulnerare erant. Atque sicut idem virum, dolor per venas sparsit, contaminans omnes membros visceraque donec omnes visi sint quiritare in concordia;

“Imploramus, Domine, nos liberes!”

Sed nec sonitus salutis ab caela, nec ab ore nautae diserti venit. Aut arbitratu aut infantia, nauta ludum tortoris non dedidit; sub callo sub longitudine vulnerum sub conspectus anguineorum oculorum celavit quiritationem.

Inde, ut lanterna rubente radio protulit, per repagulas nefastae caveae, vidit nauclerum videntem scelerosum eventum; cum non signu, perrupit lacrima admixta sanguinem ab vapulatu.

As a snake drives its venom into its prey with its teeth, the tormentor filled the sailor with an agony he had never imagined with that stained hook; the stabs and cuts were never deep enough to kill, only to wound both body and spirit. And like that same venom, the pain coursed through the sailor’s veins, infecting every limb and organ before they all seemed to scream in unison,

“Please, Lord, release us!”

But no thunderous sound of salvation came from heaven, nor from the mouth of the forsaken sailor. Whether by willpower or inability, the sailor gave not into the tormentor’s sick game; he hid his screams under the skin, beneath the reach of the gashes, below the view of those snake eyes.

Then, as the lantern revealed with red-tinted rays, he saw the captain through the bars of this unholy prison watching the wicked proceedings; and with no warning, a blood-soaked tear broke from the battered man’s eye.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est mea prolata.

I am the sailor. The light is my revelation.

"Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim" -Ovid

2009-08-05T22:45:00.000-07:00

In fatale die, nauclerus ad cavea non venit. In suo loco, sordidus tortor tenens multas horridas armamentas in umbris exstitit. Ingredit lucem lanternae, dentibus serpentis subrisit, inde illam nautam sedilem adligavit. Unguiculi sui mucrones armamentarum responderunt atque cum attinebat carnem nautae interfoderunt.

Obrigescitus vinctusque nauta fortem orem sequente pro scelere gerere potui. Tortor labia cum lingua bifida hauriente dentibus linxit, inde mixturam salivae sanguinisque in orem nautae consputavit. Inquit cum captivum hamo demulsit, “si causam tuam dicebis, te quiritatione tua cumulata sanguine obruebo.” Nauta cum sole silentio respondit.

“Vero, non dicere sperabam,” inquit, inde cum risu taetro interfodit hamum in ventrem miseri viri.

One fateful day, the captain did not come down to the sailor’s cell. Instead, a sordid torturer appeared in the shadows wielding all sorts of horrible implements. He stepped into the light of the lantern and grinned with serpent teeth before binding the sailor to a bench. His fingertips matched the blades on his tools and they dug into the sailor’s flesh as he held him down.

Petrified and restrained, the sailor could only put on a brave face for the ensuing calamity. The tormentor licked his lips with a tongue split in two, drawing blood as it dragged across his teeth, then he spit into the sailor’s face that mixture of saliva and blood. “If you don’t speak your purpose,” he said as he stroked the captive’s brow with a fishhook, “I will make you drown in your own blood-filled screams.” The sailor responded with stoic silence.

“Truthfully, I was hoping you wouldn’t talk,” the serpent-man said, then, with a hideous laugh, he dug the fishing hook into the wretched man’s gut.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est meus sanguis.

I am the sailor. The light is my blood.

Fabula pergit.

2009-08-04T20:02:00.000-07:00

Multi menses abierant, tanti vero ut nauta captus quo usque in carcere sub ponte teneri oblitus sit. Nauclerus quotidie introibat ut interrogat, sed non potente dicere, quoque tempore nauta tacite sedebat. Hos congressus adsueti sunt, atque tametsi suspicax captivi erat, nauclerus paulatim coepit fruere virum. Indicta amicitia erat, occulta sub ululatu naucleri silentioque nautae.

Sed omnibus noctis cum sol in marem succidit, illi duo discesserunt; nauclerus ad zothecam redii, timens ne captivus insidiator sit et nauta, ut lucem iterum inveniat, in cavea mansit. Sed omnibus noctis, illi duo occulos clauserunt et tenebras palpebrarum fructi sunt.

Many months had passed, so many, in fact, that the captive sailor had lost track of how long he had been held in the brig. The captain of the ship would enter the cell everyday to question the sailor, but still unable to speak, the sailor sat mute each time. They became accustomed to this tradition over this period at sea, and despite the captain’s suspicion of the prisoner, he slowly came to like the man. It was an unspoken friendship, hidden beneath the captain’s yelling and the prisoner’s silence.

But as the sun sank into the sea each day, the two men would part; the captain would return to his chamber, fearing that the prisoner could be a waylayer, and the sailor would remain in his cage, fearing he would never reach the light again. But each night, the two men would close their eyes and enjoy the darkness of their eyelids.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est tenebrae meae.

I am the sailor. The light is my blindness.

The third most important Elvis in world

2009-01-15T13:00:00.000-08:00

I'm upset I found out about this just now, but Elvis Perkins has posted three songs from his upcoming album on his website, elvisperkins.net. Since his first album, Perkins has put together a band called Elvis Perkins in Dearland, and has apparently moved on from the melancholy of his first release. In his defense (not that he'd need one for an excellent album), Ash Wednesday was written in the wake of his mother's tragic death in the 9/11 attacks, a day before the anniversary of his father's death (the actor who played Norman Bates). It's still the simple but effective folk songs that brought him modest popularity, but there's a flair to these new songs which will surely bring him a larger audience this year.

Do yourself a favor and listen to the tracks on his website. I also put up a song from Ash Wednesday.

CLICK HERE DAMMIT

"You should make the playlist a little bit smaller." - PALS

2009-01-13T18:24:00.000-08:00

I got the playlist working, but then I received a frightening comment from PALS that I should make the playlist a little bit smaller. I'm going to be honest, I don't know who this PALS is or why I should make the playlist smaller, but I'm going to assume PALS is an acronym for People Against Lots of Songs and his message was a threat against my life if I were not to comply. Therefore, I removed three of the songs.

PALS, I hope this gesture of good faith can ease the tensions between our people and that further negotiations will not be necessary.

Also, this is the most ridiculous band I have seen in a while. All I can think of is the concert scene from "Yes Man."

Working on the whole Imeem thing

2009-01-12T14:28:00.000-08:00

Please bear with me while I try to get this whole playlist thing working. If all goes according to plan, I'll add songs as much as possible, and a few songs from anything I review or write about. Then this will blog will actually be worth visiting and I'll be good looking and popular.

In the meantime, I got a couple of the Bon Iver songs up, and some Nilsson for good measure. Enjoy.

Review: Blood Bank EP

2009-01-12T13:00:00.001-08:00

OMG did you know he wrote For Emma, Forever Ago in a cabin?

Yes. I own the internets too.

Justin Vernon’s story is as infamous as Robert Ford at this point, so I won’t even breach the topic. Today, I’ll talk about the music; specifically, the much anticipated Blood Bank EP. Those familiar with the LP will feel right at home as the first song (and title track) rolls back the curtains on the four track EP. It comes as no surprise then that this first song was written in the midst of the For Emma sessions. You remember, that whole cabin story. It’s a beautifully moving song; a perfect segue from the somber folk melodies of the LP. Where For Emma carried the weight of loss and coping with it, Blood Bank says get over it, move on, be a man. And Justin Vernon takes heed of his own sentiments. His vocals on the first three songs are beautiful, but there is a palpable feeling of growth in him. Singing that first song, Vernon’s voice sounds older, more direct, more confident. And the lyrics throughout the EP are irreverent, about as inconsequential as a Fleet Foxes song. And I love it for that.

The next two songs aren’t necessarily forgettable, but they do feel more like filler between the two standout tracks in the set. They are, however, Bon Iver, and so they beg comparison only to other Bon Iver. Vernon has achieved a remarkable thing with this band by creating a sound which is immediately identifiable as some brand of folk, but still sounds entirely new. So when someone asks me what Bon Iver sounds like, I have to reply, “I dunno…”

That is until I heard the fourth song, “Woods,” when I had to click over to Windows Media Player (yes, I am the last remaining patron of WMP) to make sure it hadn’t switched over to 808 and Heartbreak. Let me put this straight, I will never say, “that is a fantastic use of auto-tune technology.” Never. The closest I could have gotten to it was on For Emma when subtle moments of that quivering synthetic whisper managed to draw me in. I don’t know what it is about the robot voice that has people so enthused. Vernon said it was a chance for him to experiment, but I can’t see how turning up the auto-tune all the way up is experimenting so much as it is doing exactly what Kanye did a couple of months ago. Consolation: Vernon probably hadn’t heard the new Kanye yet when he wrote it.

All that being said, the song is still great. Would it have been great without the robot voice? Definitely. Would it have been better? I honestly can’t say. I have to give it to Bon Iver though: it is interesting. It catches the ear, and the a capella harmonies with a natural voice doing backing behind the manufactured voice is as compelling as anything he has done to date.

This gives me no faith in auto-tune, mind you, only faith in Bon Iver. My biggest fear is that this gives legitimacy to the machine and we’ll see more great singers pushing their voices through the electronic cheese grater.

Just wait for the day that he does a duet of “Hide and Seek” with Imogen Heap and we’ll be in robot heaven.

Verdict:
Bon Iver's Myspace Page: Full EP is streaming for a limited time.

Review: Merriweather Post Pavilion

2009-01-11T20:53:00.000-08:00

My relationship with Pitchfork has always been a marriage of convenience. It was and never will be love, but I think we genuinely like each other. We sort of fell into this thing, but it works for us. It’s an open marriage; she let’s me peruse through other editorials and in return, I let her tend to her flock of electronic-dance-pop enthusiast hipsters. We don’t judge each other. She thinks it’s endearing that I actually still like Ben Folds and as much as I fucking hate the Thermals, I know it’s her job to keep me informed on their upcoming tour and film them playing on top of a building in New York. This is our life. It’s not a perfect relationship, I know, but it works for us. When I come home after a long day, I know she’s there for me, ready with a five course meal of new albums. Sure, sometimes it’s a little dry, but that’s life. I’ll get some take-out down the street if I don’t like what she’s serving.

So when Pitchfork kept trying to force Animal Collective down my throat, I kindly told her I wasn’t interested. It was about two years ago when she first tried, and I wasn’t having anything to do with it. Then shortly after, she completely tricked me by giving me Panda Bear, an Animal Collective offshoot that floored me with thoughts of Brian Wilson totally just hanging in the future. I felt a little embarrassed. I admittedly didn’t give Animal Collective a chance before, but in an effort to save face, I stuck to my stance of, “Yeah, Panda Bear is really good, but I don’t like Animal Collective.” I mean, this is a band that can do a Take Away Show without playing any real music and convince the director that it was an act of musical genius. Here . That kind of power justifiably terrified me.That kind of hero worship in a band is a dangerous thing. No musician, no matter how great, is infallible. So when someone makes shit, we have to be able to call it for what it is: shit. Every Brian Wilson has his Smart Girls.

But Pitchfork didn’t relent; last week they offered me an album that was almost guaranteed to be in their top ten this December long before it ever came out. And having made a vow to myself to pay better attention to more music this year, I was forced to admit defeat and give Merriweather Post Pavilion a spin.

And damn it, it's good.

While eleven songs which never pass the six minute mark may seem a little mainstream for a band with the reputation of Animal Collective, it is a welcome change of pace. And as little right as I have to say it, I don’t think I am alone in that opinion. It appears that making a collection of singles rather than a rambling album has served to rein in those more eccentric tendencies, all the while highlighting the strength of the band’s song-weaving.

This album, I realized, is an eye-opener to those heretics like me, those unconverted souls on the fringes of the empire, although it is unlikely to convert anyone beyond the periphery. It instantly made me wonder what about this band I was missing before. Was it my musical taste that changed, or was it them? So I ventured into the band’s back catalogue, and came to a conclusion. Whereas the Animal Collective of yesteryear tended to surround moments of outstanding music with atmospheric bullshit (given there is a certain brilliance to the successful implementation of a sonic landscape), 2009 sees the band cutting the bullshit out and getting straight into business. I can only assume that when I listened to Strawberry Jam in 2007, I couldn’t get past that thick fog.

Lyrically, these are songs about absolutely nothing and everything all at once. About family and love in the purest sense. No lies, just the way things are. He just wants “four walls and abode slabs for [his] girls.” There is nothing to prove on this album and so there is nothing to decipher. Musically these songs are complex snowballs that pack together more layers as they roll down the sonic landscape, never competing with gravity. They are somehow both feel manufactured and natural, which in this case go well together.

In an attempt to be at least a little creative, I've decided to rate albums by drawing incomplete stars. Basically, how much of the star I draw means how good the album is. Get it?

Animal Collective's MySpace Page

And that’s my first review, sorry I didn’t write about the actual music more, but I think the album speaks for itself. Here’s hoping this year in music is half as good as 2008.

And, Pitchfork, thanks babe. Kisses.

A Beard That Should Have Been: Andrew Jackson

2008-05-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

Andrew Jackson is to badass as my opinion is to the truth. Unequivocal.

The evidence:

Exhibit A: At age 13, Jackson became a prisoner of war during the Revolution. When a British officer commanded him to shine his shoes, Jackson said, "Bitch, please!" At the end of the war, every single member of his family had died by some manner of the British war machine. Without a family, Jackson grew up without comfort or support, and the experience instilled in the future president the cold, unfeeling heart which allowed him "to raise his pimp hand high without the hindrance of guilt or conscience" (Zinn 84).

Exhibit B: During the War of 1812, Jackson showed his complete disregard for conventional political diplomacy by finally turning the tides of war with an American victory in New Orleans after peace had already been settled. When asked if he had known the war was over at the time, Jackson replied, "who the hell are you?"

Exhibit C: Andrew Jackson was the first president to be given a baby to kiss. No joke: he handed the baby to the Secretary of War. Classy.

Exhibit D: During his presidency, Jackson sent a Viking raiding party to rape and pillage the National Bank. When that failed, he simply withdrew the funds, like a badass.

Exhibit E: While on a walk around the White House with Davy Crockett, yes, THAT Davy Crockett, a man jumped out of the bushes with two pistols; both failed, and the President of the United States caned the living shit out of his attempted assassin until he was torn away by his own company.

Exhibit F: Andrew Jackson’s favorite past-time was apparently dueling, as he is recorded as possibly participating in over a hundred of them during his life. Let’s do the math here. Andrew Jackson lived to be 78 years old. At more than a hundred duels, that means that, essentially, every six months (assuming he began at age 10), he let someone shoot a bullet at him. Letting someone shoot at you falls into one of two categories: badass or bat-shit loony. Jackson was both. This also means that every six months, he shot someone, which is deduced from the fact that he lived to be 78. In fact, in one duel, he let the other man shoot him first, then proceeded to take his time aiming back. The bullet stayed in his body for 19 years.

Exhibit the last: At his funeral, Jackson’s pet parrot had to be escorted out because it wouldn’t stop cursing. Although the exact words were not recorded, it can be safely assumed it probably said, “Fuck you, Henry Clay!” and "Calhoun's a douchebag!"

Works Cited
Zinn, Howard. A People’s History of the United States. New York: Harper Perennial, 2003.

A Beard That Should Have Been: George Washington

2008-04-28T16:18:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my work on Nelson, I have decided to make a new segment dedicated to adding a chin-warmer to the most deserving badasses of history. I will call this segment, "Beards That Should Have Been."

Example 1: As the first President of the United States, George Washington established a precedent of presidential decorum. Until 1944, every president followed Washington's example of unselfish government by nobly leaving office within two terms. Franklin Deleano Roosevelt decided to break this trend by running for a third term. Unfortunately for Japan, the ghost of George Washington, angered by this obvious lack of deference, beat the crippled president to death, placing Harry S Truman in command, and thus causing the destruction of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

Now, had George Washington worn a beard, not only would every president since him have worn one as well, which would be, in the words of a famous political scientist, "so fucking rad," but Roosevelt would never have dreamed of challenging this face to a game of presidential supremacy:

"I'm the fucking dog's bullocks, gents!"
-George Washington in his Resignation Speech in the Old Senate Chamber, December 23, 1783.

Someone at Thesaurus.com wasn't hugged enough as a kid...

2008-03-10T22:29:00.000-07:00

Statistical Proof that God Wins

2008-02-14T12:09:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder why some people call themselves "God-fearing men?" Here it is the illustrated guide:

Translated into a graph:

Need more proof? Meet Colossal Squid:

Think polar bears are cute? Wrong, you are stupid. You'll probably end up like this lady.

This is a shark... ten feet above the water... with dinner in its mouth. What is that dangling from his fangs? That is you.

What was God thinking when he created the marlin?

"Hey, Michael, check out what I just invented! Yeah, it's like a shark, right, but then I attached a sword to its face! Fucking SWEET, right? I can't wait to test it out!"

Concept art of marlin from God's notebook:

Ok, that is just too much. A giant mindless ameoba that stings the shit out of whatever it touches? Really? Come on, God, you aren't even playing fair now.

I don't trust things I can't comprehend. I don't know how this is going to kill me, but I know it will.

What a pretty frog. Too bad even looking at it for too long will kill you.

They have learned how to ride horses. We are doomed.

Of Great and Mortal Men

2008-01-06T23:41:00.000-08:00

This seemed important enough for me to put here. And now I when I look back at this post, I'll be reminded to buy it. Most people will not know any of the people involved in the project (other than the subjects I would hope), but I assure you, this will be a worthwhile set to own. I'm not sure about Gerken, but Kiefer and Pitcher are both pretty decent songwriters. (Check out To All the Dead Sailors, a collaboration by them. And although that album will not be for everyone, it is hauntingly beautiful and is by far one of my favorite albums on 2007) Anyway, here, read, and if you like history at all, try not to salivate:

In most journalism circles, one of the biggest stories of the next year will be the 2008 presidential election, but since Obama, Clinton, and Giuliani have yet to form a shoegaze supergroup, we here at Pitchfork must stick to the Radiohead tour updates, Grizzly Bear collaborations, and indie rock nudity. Nonetheless, Standard Recording Company has thrown us a bone in the politics department in the form of a three-CD box set tentatively titled Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs About 43 U.S. Presidencies. The set's subject matter is apparent, and its backstory doesn't disappoint.

Christian Kiefer, Matthew Gerken (Nice Monster), and Jefferson Pitcher (ex-Above the Orange Trees) wrote nearly all of Of Great and Mortal Men's songs back in February 2006 as part of February Album Writing Month, a songwriting challenge to write 14 songs in 28 days. They pooled their efforts to pen a song apiece about all of the U.S. presidents (3 x 14 = 42, with the George W. Bush tune arriving later), and they came out of it with a heap of demos. Then, they fleshed (and are fleshing) the songs out with studio contributions from Califone, Alan Sparhawk (Low), Mark Kozelek (Sun Kil Moon/Red House Painters), Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice, Rosie Thomas, Denison Witmer, Marla Hansen (Sufjan Stevens's band), Vince DiFiore (Cake), and Tom Carter (Charalambides), among others.

Kiefer calls the resultant box set "a walk through American history and an inquiry into what makes us Americans as filtered through the lens of our highest public office. There's heartbreak and beauty and criticism and revelation. We're trying to make it work like a big beautiful historical novel."Of Great and Mortal Men does not yet have a definite release date, but Standard plans to put it out in the summer. The tracklist is here (seriously, it's that simple). Susan Archie is scheduled to design the art for the box itself, and the package will come with 43 cards, each with an image of one of the presidents done by one of 43 different artists.

Finally, Standard will supplement the set with a 44th song, available next November following the election. As soon as the results are official, everyone who bought the box set can go to the label's website and download Mr. or Mrs. 44's song.

http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/news/47385-califone-sparhawk-kozelek-help-do-presidential-songs