Sunday Music Guest Post #2

In celebration of reaching the halfway point of my (50) Sundays of Music countdown, I wanted to do something to celebrate. I figured what better way than to turn the tables around and hear about other people's favorite music. So I asked some of my blogger friends (and a special guest) to give me a week full of guest posts talking about one of their favorite artists, albums or songs and to give the reason why. Today's guest post comes from...

Mike! I know it may be weird to gush over a male blogger, but that's exactly what I'm about to do. Mike talks about music in the way I wish I could. Even his comments on my Sunday music posts are worded in a way that always make me go "That's exactly what I was trying to say -- I just didn't know how." Our musical tastes are eerily familiar, however we are not afraid to disagree from time to time. Feel free to disagree (because he can take the criticism) or marvel at his words (like I do) below:

50 Sundays Of Music: Howl by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

When Matt so graciously asked me to contribute this piece for his "50 Sundays Of Music" series, I was immediately thrilled. I'd been following Matt's blog for a while, and I love the reflective nature and intimacy he brings to music discussions, something I've always attempted with my own writing. And after thinking about what a privilege it is to write something like this, I decided to comment about a record that has, only recently, made an impact on my life, rather than simply being one of my favorites.

Back in 2005, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC) released an incredibly polarizing record that split their fan base down the middle. It was called Howl, an homage to the poem by Allen Ginsberg as well as a thematic summation of what was inside its jewel case. I suppose if you'd been a fan of the group's blues-by-way-of-shoegaze cool, the record would have been incredibly off putting due to its acoustic character. There are no flashy guitar solos and no messy bridges on Howl. The record doesn't contain BRMC's signature drone, and it doesn't require amps that go to 11. Instead, it shuffles along, finding its pace in shimmering reflections and slow burning theatrics.

Yet the album is far from a collection of stripped down, "Unplugged" style b-sides.

The songs on Howl have an incredible weight to them, and that's the first thing I noticed when I spun the album. Like I said earlier, it's not so much a collection of stripped down songs, but an exploration of older, more organic ways to create music. These tracks are held together by the jangle of acoustic blues and folk, but they're fleshed out with weeping electric guitar, lumbering piano, and solemn strings. It's almost as if tinkering with these old (By 2010 standards) sounds puts an emphasis on how universal BRMC's lyrics are, a sense that no matter how far you travel, you'll always arrive somewhere familiar. So suffice to say, BRMC's lush harmonies and high production values make it a work to take seriously, an album that is more than just an acoustic novelty.

When I put it on, that's the quality that shines through the most: Authenticity.

There's an honesty through which these songs were assembled, and an earnestness to the truths they examine. Lyrically, Howl isn't so much a protest record as it is a lamentation on the choices men make. Throughout the album's 13 tracks, both Robert Been and Peter Hayes look at human morality as determined by pain and struggle. They don't necessarily come to a finite conclusion, but their journey has captivating highs and lows. Whether it's in exploring the anguish of change on "Promise" ("All lines are broken/And we need you to hold on/Your eyes have opened/But you've got to go on/I'll comfort you, I'll stay with you/It's a promise not forgotten") or the world-weary connectedness of "Shuffle Your Feet" ("Tiiiiiiiiime/Won't save our souls") BRMC's refreshingly grand scope makes Howl a deceptively thoughtful record through modest means.

Yet as true as these qualities are for me, as well as other fans of Howl, I suppose it doesn't say an awful lot about why this album is important to me.

To that, I have to simply reply that it's an album that perfectly parallels my present outlook on life. Suddenly, almost overnight, my world got bigger and my fears scarier in this post-college world. I often joke about how I feel middle aged at 22, but I'm beginning to feel a disconnect from young people that are hedonistic, and I yearn to connect with others that are searching like I am. You won't find any songs on Howl about romantic relationships, or nights out with your friends, and while those are all important aspects of life, Howl touches on the soul, spirituality, and the stuff that men are made of. At a time in my life where I'm confused about the future, it's comforting to have a piece of music that so eloquently asks the same questions I'm asking.

There's a vulnerability on Howl that really rings true for me, a quality absent from the vast majority of music today. Maybe it has to do with the way Been's naked voice sounds over plucked strings, or maybe it's because I've developed a voracious appetite for the blues. I suppose it might have to do with the idea of life as one loud cry for something intangible. Maybe everyone is howling for understanding, and confusion runs rampant because we can't hear each other over the noise.

Honestly, I'm not 100% sure.

Whatever it is, I find Howl instantly relatable and endlessly applicable, the sign of any timeless record. Perhaps if you take it for a spin, you'll feel that way too.