EASE DOWN THE ROAD

Stephen Malkmus: Real Emotional Trash: 4 1/2 Stars

Before the release of this, Stephen Malkmus’ fourth album following the breakup of his name-making band, Pavement, finding a relation between the quality of the man’s output to how much control he has over the writing, playing and recording of his songs was inevitable. Pavement, surely a spirited crew of chums to the end, could hardly keep up with Malkmus’ ability following the beautiful mess that was Wowee Zowee. Likewise, his first and third solo albums – the ones he wrote, played and recorded almost entirely by himself – were better than his second, Pig Lib, which was great, but at times uneven. Real Emotional Trash, Malkmus and his Jicks’ first album since the addition of powerhouse drummer Janet Weiss (Sleater-Kinney, Quasi), is the most collaborative Malkmus-related album since he and Spiral Stairs were first destroying guitars in Gary Young’s home studio in 1991. This does make Trash different than any other Malkmus record; but don’t worry, it’s also very good and – along with Slanted and Stephen Malkmus – his most cohesive record, playing through with a very organic, live-in-studio feel, a rare attribute no other Malkmus album can wholly claim.

Does this added element of collaboration water down the Malkmus-isms that make his records so special? Maybe. Maybe a little bit here and there, but not necessarily in a way that obscures the brilliance of his craft. After a few listens, the meaty-as-hell guitar riffs and slow-pounding classic rock rhythms that open the album come off as an anthem for a new kind of Jick. Malkmus rips all over opener “Dragonfly Pie,” showing that he has no problem keeping up with Weiss’ every pounding expectation, proving that the noodle-y winks spread throughout his past were no joke. The song, like any good Malkmus offering, inevitably turns silly, with our man splitting time between his familiar girly voice and heavy, dirty guitar solos. The stoner/pop duality of this song sets the stage for Trash, an album that sees the band playing strictly organic music that sounds exactly how an album from a crew of notable 90s rockers bent on both 70s music and the quirkier side of Brit-pop should.

The seven-minute “Hopscotch Willie” is a surprisingly fluent trip, harboring Malkmus’ least obscure lyrics since his eponymous solo debut. Still a clinic in obscurity compared to the average college radio tune, “Willie” manages to be lengthy without ever feeling loopy, mixing solos and movements in a pseudo-prog, kitchen-sink-Zeppelin sort of way we haven’t yet heard from Malkmus. This is not surprising, really, considering the ever-growing amount of goofy guitar noodling on his records. Next up is “Cold Son,” one of Trash’s shortest offerings at just under four minutes. Here Malkmus again splices his stoner-rock and pop-rock loves into one, crafting a trippy-but-catchy song made to satisfy Wowee Zowee-era Pavement enthusiasts.

A clear focus on diversity keeps Real Emotional Trash’s songs from ever sounding too similar. Rumbling live-in-studio sound in tow, songs like “Baltimore” and, especially, “Real Emotional Trash” are at first challenging, clocking in at around seven and 10 minutes each. “Baltimore,” Trash’s default lead single, will appeal to the “jam kids” Malkmus himself snarkily sang about in the mid 90s. Full of silver-tongued lyrical poetics and what appears again to be a prog-rock approach to long-form pop, the song feels more like a journey than a jam, trading off memorable one-liners, hooks and guitar solos to sweetly stitched-together results. The album’s title track, likewise, attempts to be epic without ever falling into the loopy category. Malkmus knows what a jam is, surely, but doesn’t play by the rules. Rather than wanking around too indulgently on his guitar, “Real Emotional Trash” sees Malkmus working in chapters, building a cohesive song for the ages that displays his self-taught guitar prowess better than anything else he’s put on tape.

But, like we were saying, this is an album built on diversity – one that contains a few pure pop moments. “Gardenia,” for one, is unapologetically bouncy and sugarcoated with “bop-bop-ba-da-da-da” backing vocals; it’s the kind of wordy, weird and joyous song that only SxMx could dream up. Along with the aforementioned “Cold Son” and instantly classic sounding “We Can’t Help You” (think Wilco’s recent “What Light”), “Gardenia” reminds listeners of the man’s minimalist genius. He’s a master of left-field pop, and, unlikely as it seems, he’s somehow found a way to take said genre’s backbone and make it breathe. He’s writing songs that he and his band will surely be able to open up on stage when they feel like it – songs that, without being too “jammy” on record, are made perfect for changing each time they’re played, not at all different from The Grateful Dead’s folk-pop masterpiece American Beauty.

Collaborative, heavy in sound and full of weirdo slacker charm, Trash is another great chapter in the long book of Leather McWhip. Be it a Pavement, Silver Jews or Jicks record, Malkmus refuses to do the same thing twice. Calling this one of the very best records of his career – if only for its ambition, unique yet subtle genre-melding and skillful playing – would not be an overstatement. Calling it the first great album of 2008 is a no-brainer. (Greg Locke)

Beck: Odelay (Deluxe Edition): 4 Stars

Beck’s second major label album, Odelay, was released in 1996 – just as some of my friends were working on wrecking their first cars and hunting down their first girlfriends. I vaguely remember having someone drive me to a Handy Dandy to meet up with a radio station van that was running a live feed. I’d won an advance copy of Beck’s then unreleased classic album over the phone, and I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. I’d been a fan of grunge, hip-hop and classic rock for the whole of my young life, so, needless to say, I flipped the first time I heard the genre-bending “Where It’s At” on MTV. Sure, I liked “Loser” and some of Beck’s previous songs, but Odelay was instantly something different: it was and still is an incredibly produced genre-masher no one could’ve ever expected. Because of this personal history with Beck’s funky pop classic I wasn’t surprised to find myself racing out on the day of its release to pick up the uber-expanded reissue of the album. After all, this was arguably the most creative and influential Platinum-selling album of the 90s.

Let’s start by stating the obvious: most reissues are little more than a ploy by record labels to get people to pay for an album a second time, sans all the initial recording, design and marketing costs. Most include demos, live songs, videos, interviews or alternate recordings, but not usually a whole lot more that truly warrants the price of readmission. This is not the case with Odelay: Deluxe Edition. Along with the original 13-song album, buyers also get a rare Odelay-era soundtrack song, two never-before-heard songs, three remixes and, most importantly, 13 mostly rare b-sides from the Odelay sessions. Remixes aside, this 33-song collection only further establishes the greatness of Odelay.

An underdog experimentalist before the release of this album, Beck worked long and hard on these dense, imaginative recordings, reportedly writing and recording enough material for three albums, a rumor proven by the girth of this reissue. The core album – which in retrospect could most easily be described as a mishmash of the Beastie Boys, grunge, pop and folk – still sounds bigger than life and as brainy and varied as anything from its era. Pair the 13 b-sides with the three other rare studio tracks, and you have yourself Odelay, Pt. 2, a worthwhile extension to an already essential album.

The “bonus album” here, which is being playfully dubbed as Deadweight (after one of the many bonus tracks) in fan circles, sounds consistent to Odelay’s core material, though rightfully not quite as memorable. The songs bleep and burst, usually feeling more like cut-and-paste projects than actual songs. We learn from the extensive liner notes that Beck plays most of the instruments on the songs, accompanied most often by production cohorts The Dust Brothers, who add a programmed layer of static-y grime, offering this lengthy collection an element of continuity.

In addition to the completist-friendly content on Odelay: Deluxe Edition, you also get a few unexpected perks. Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore, for one, contributes a write-up that works as a foreword to the Dave Eggers-penned liner notes. All lyrics and original art is included, as well as some rare additional art, a protective slipcase and some goofy, spiffed-up exterior art made to remind listeners that Odelay is supposed to be a fun record. Where most reissues prey on the loyalty of devout fans, this project – coordinated by Shauna O’Brien – is a generous collection of material that should not only make fans feel nostalgic for the sound of the summer of 1996 but also offer the very worthwhile scraps Beck left in his determined, arty rubble.

Not every generation gets a Bowie, but the rockers (and rappers, and funkers) of the 90s did, and this is his masterpiece, an album that still sounds great some 140 months later. It was and still is youthful music for youthful days, an album that will likely sound forever fresh, artistically ambitious and stylistically wandering. (Greg Locke)

The Magnetic Fields: Distortion: 4 Stars
Where does Stephin Merritt get off? The creative force not just behind The Magnetic Fields, but also a number of other bands, Merritt uses his latest album, Distortion, to remind us of his two greatest assets: 1) He will never do things “the normal way”; 2) He will never establish a signature “home sound.” For some listeners an artist with ever-challenging approaches like Merritt is little other than annoying; for those hell-bent on the concept of art-through-growth, Merritt is – even when his work misses the mark, which is often – an inspiring creative force with a whole lot of mixed-bag albums and an endless imagination.

There are contrasting elements everywhere on Distortion, a surprisingly rockin’ record that plays through like a sing-along summer album made for freezing winter months. Despite having a thick blanket of drone-y (but warm) guitar fuzz over the whole baker’s dozen, little else about the collection makes an argument for fluidity as tact. There are multiple singers throughout, a heavy load of similar but different guitar and keyboard sounds and plenty of kinda creepy arthouse style. Oh, and it’s all cloaked in production that brings to mind the Jesus and Mary Chain. Merritt and Shirley Simms split vocals almost evenly with their contrasting styles: Merritt still delivers each word with a hopelessness made cheeky by his deep whirring voice; Simms sounds happy and young, and somehow just as mischievous and unctuous as Merritt.

Distortion sounds little like any other Magnetic Fields album, but its guts do feel familiar. What makes this a Magnetic Fields album is Merritt’s dense, brainy arrangements and hook-per-second writing style. Like some of his finer pop moments, Merritt makes every line seem memorable and every second seem thoughtful. The results, however, are different. Instead of mountains of strings, bleeping production or an elaborate lo-fi sound, Merritt drops buzzing, calculated guitars around every word, all drowning in the album’s namesake, never showing off or begging for attention. The real reason Distortion works is that it’s a pop record, one that’s cloaked in anything but pop elements. Again, contrasts.

New Merritt ponderers will most likely leave this record feeling uncertain about its maker’s direction and focus, while old fans should feel comforted, as their king of subtle experimentation and restless approach has struck again. He’s finally back from his long post-69 Love Songs struggle with mediocre genre benders, and with songs like “California Girls,” “Too Drunk to Dream” and “The Nun’s Litany” he’s delivered his most consistent record yet. In the spirit of both The The and Echo & the Bunnymen, Distortion is art-on-record, an unlikely mishmashing of ideas delivered ripe from both sides of the weirdo’s brain. Buzzing, fuzzy pop never sounded so brutal. (Greg Locke)

 Jay-Z: American Gangster: 3 1/2 Stars

There I was standing in the record store sometime late last year, trying to force myself to buy Sigur Ros’ just released album – knowing full well that it’d probably sound exactly like all their other stuff – when I spotted Jay-Z’s brand new album, American Gangster. For the first year since age 13 I’ve bought less than 10 hip-hop albums in a 12-month span. It’s not that I don’t keep an eye out for what’s going on; I just very rarely like what I hear anymore from the genre, be it commercial or underground. Seeing Jay-Z so shamelessly ape director Ridley Scott’s fine-enough film about the collaboration between real-life gangster Frank Lucas and police officer Richie Roberts that brought down over 100 drug-related criminals (including a good number of police officers) seemed a bit baffling to me, baffling enough to warrant a purchase. Why, I asked myself as I picked up the disc in the store, would Jay-Z, a rapper known for glorifying “the drug game,” celebrate an individual who ratted out so many people in “the game”? I had to find out.

Unfortunately, there aren’t really any deep hidden meanings in Gangster’s lyrics, Jay simply saw an early cut of the film a few weeks before it was set to hit theaters and all but ran to the studio to cash in on the obvious themes (read: power, drugs, violence, respect, machismo) of the topical film. When Jay’s classic debut, Reasonable Doubt, was released he boasted a fresh mix of artistic and business instincts. No more. Jay is now much more of a businessman. When he heard talk of a film that played through like “The Black Scarface,” he knew he had to watch it as soon as possible, secure the rights to name his album after it (as well as a slew of dialogue samples) and call up all his producer friends.

American Gangster, despite its instantly cheap history and phoned-in motives, is Jay’s proper return to form. Though the album features loads of guests (his girlfriend, Beyonce, gets the first proper vocals on the record) and played-out production, most of the songs roll easy down the hatch, some even prompting use of the “repeat” button. That said, this album employs nearly every cliché Jay’s lesser peers have been employing over the last few years: pointless guest appearances; an intro worth listening to exactly once; inconsistent production spread out over a slew of different producers with different sounds; needless use of the words “bonus tracks” listed before the album’s last two tracks; and, amongst a million other things, Scarface-inspired moodiness.

Since American Gangster was produced, written and put together so quickly, Jay didn’t have the usual grace period needed to focus on writing hook-heavy songs with compromised pop lyrics. Instead, we get a more natural Jay, one that is still generic in subject matter and style, but also better than anyone else who does what he does. Songs like “No Hook,” “Fallin,” “Sweet” and “Say Hello” bring to mind both the soulful moments of The Blueprint and the lyrically spontaneous highlights of Reasonable Doubt. Unfortunately, American Gangster just can’t stand next to those two classic albums, though it is tempting to call it Jay’s proper return to form, even if it is by way of regression. (Greg Locke)

1. Radiohead: In Rainbows
I liked Radiohead a whole lot in 1993 when I was in the eighth grade, so being assured by In Rainbows’ 10 tracks that it’s okay to still like the band of my youth (screw you, Nirvana) a whole lot as an adult capped my music-filled year off nicely. In Rainbows, the band’s seventh studio album, is their most mature batch of recordings yet; likewise, the way they handled the release of the album was sophisticated, so much so that you can expect the details of such to go down in music history books. (Singer Thom Yorke claims that they’ve made more money off of In Rainbows than everything else they’re released combined.) But in the case of this list, the money and hoopla are neither here nor there, it’s the music – and only the music – that earned In Rainbows the No. 1 spot on my list. I’m already nostalgic for the first time opener “15 Step” hit my ears; instantly more original in construction than anything on Hail to the Thief or Amnesiac, it marked the return of a band who many had recently started to think were out of grand ideas. Following such an amazing song can be tricky (I also remember the fearful and skeptical feelings of my aforementioned first listen), but with the guitar-heavy “Bodysnatchers,” Radiohead offer up their best song since “Idioteque.” “All I Need,” “Reckoner,” “Videotape” – they’re all good, and I could go on and on about why I think that, in sum, they make for the best record of the year. No need. Just know this: Radiohead have more ideas, and, below the mountain of media ruckus and against the naysayer’s cozy odds, the five brooding wimps from England put together another great album, one that cements them as the best (and most uncompromising) avant-garde band mainstream music has seen.

2. Ryan Adams: Easy Tiger
Just as sure as there is a mental age where pretentiousness becomes a passage to understanding, there’s also a time where it becomes, well, dreadfully pretentious. Ryan Adams might be the only person on the planet who has convinced me that he can do just about anything he wants if given some instruments and a studio or stage. Because of this simple fact, his incredibly up-front Easy Tiger stands out amongst the countless other great albums in his already busting catalog ‘o rock as a classic. Yes, it’s straight ahead – almost even to the point of being 70s pop/rock radio – but it’s also the most “repeat button-worthy” album I heard all year, an accomplishment not to be hastily overlooked. Stockpiled with more memorable lines, beautiful vocals and love-of-your-life melodies than anything Adams has done since Heartbreaker, Easy Tiger doesn’t sway and experiment like Panda Bear’s Person Pitch or clang and mystify like Menomena’s Friend and Foe (two highly acclaimed albums from 2007); no, this is a simple, timeless collection of songs that no one but Ryan Adams could write. Easy Tiger is built to be the kind of record you listen to not just at a certain stage of your life, but for the rest of your life. As the cheese balls like to say, this is “one for the ages,” a new classic for the post-pretentious rock n’ roll crowd.

3. The New Pornographers: Challengers
Against my better judgment (I’d traded in all of my New Pornographers records in 2006), I bought Challengers after reading an album review written by whatzup’s Derek Neff. As I recall, Neff didn’t like the album nearly as much as the Porno’s previous two efforts, but he did say that it was different. According to Neff, Challengers attempted to have some variety, rather than resting on the band’s genius knack for in-your-face sugary pop. Upon first listen I was happy to find that Neff’s assessment was both right and wrong: Challengers had five times the variety of the band’s other albums, but, at least in my opinion, it was also about 10 times as good. Though Dan “Destroyer” Bejar’s three offerings are effortlessly enjoyable (especially “Myriad Harbour,” one of 2007’s finest moments), it is resident pop genius Carl Newman’s nine songs – sometimes sung by Neko Case or newbie Kathryn Calder – that lead the way. While Bejar’s songs follow the theatrical route he’s long been building up to, Newman’s songs would most easily be classified as imaginative retro-pop. Yes, most of Newman’s offerings are big-hook pop songs, but the arrangements are Brian Wilson-worthy, at least as far as unpredictable inventiveness goes. That said, you don’t need a PhD in music history to enjoy the hooks and heart of Challengers. It’s pop music, enjoy it.

4. Magnolia Electric Co.: Nashville Moon
No tricks here – Magnolia Electric Co.’s Nashville Moon is torn from the gut of early-70s Neil Young, but with (thanks to living legend Steve Albini) much better production. It’s a dark, poetic, sturdy-as-hell, natural-sounding record that rewards with (and demands) repeat listens. It’s the album that should’ve made the world finally believe in the enduring genius of Magnolia’s brooding honcho, Jason Molina. But alas, almost no one heard Nashville Moon in 2007, as it was only issued as part of the very rare Sojourner box set. No matter your route, just be sure to listen to “No Moon on the Water” before you, like, die.

5. Okkervil River: The Stage Names
After listening to Okkervil River’s 2005 conceptual opus, Black Sheep Boy, over and over again for a few solid weeks I was convinced that they were destined to become the band I’d head into my 30s with. They’d next make an unthinkable album similar to the Flaming Lips’ Yoshimi that would change the world, I just knew it. Then came The Stage Names, the band’s by-far most orthodox (read: boring at first) album to date. Then it set in: The Stage Names isn’t about conceptual growth or mongo gestures; it’s about making the best batch of songs without hiding behind indie rock’s overused blanket of abstractness. The Stage Names, which comes armed with some of the year’s very best songs (”Unless It’s Kicks,” “A Hand to Take Hold of the Scene” and “A Girl in Port,” to name three) is an organically conceived indie rock album with not just a pinch of soul and swagger, but also all the usual off-kilterness the scene kids needs to feel special.

Honorabled mentions: Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga; Thunderhawk, Gravity Wins!; Low, Drums and Guns; Bill Callahan, Woke on a Whaleheart; The Black Lips, Good Bad Not Evil; LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver.

Basia Bulat: Oh, My Darling: 4 1/2 Stars

Joni Mitchell, heyday era (1970-75), is about as good as a singer/songwriter gets, especially considering the grace and staying power of her Blue and Court and Spark albums. As good as Neko Case, Cat Power, Fiona Apple, Tori Amos and other similar folk-y female popsters have been over the years, there hasn’t really been another Joni-level female folk album since The Hissing of Summer Lawns. Not to imply that Basia Bulat and her debut album, Oh, My Darling, are better than the Cases, Cats, Apples and Amoses out there, but Darling quite possibly is the closest thing the current generation has to its own Blue. 

Let’s get one thing straight before going any further: Case, Cat, Apple and Amos all have better albums than Darling, no doubt about that. That said, Darling is a better debut than any of the aforementioned artists managed, and probably a better debut than just about anyone of Bulat’s ilk since Joanna Newsom released The Milk-Eyed Mender. Thirteen organically produced and played pop songs are held together by Bulat’s deep but very feminine vocals, which at once quiver, fall and soar, sounding far too developed for anything on a debut record. Likewise, Darling’s compositions are very clever, sounding almost as if Bulat first recorded her acoustic guitar and vocal parts before heaping on layers of strings, harmonica, autoharp, ukulele, piano, flute and percussion after months of tinkering. It’s a cut-and-paste sounding folk record, one that is elegantly written at a level of maturity and sophistication rarely achieved by a 24 year old. 

Opening with the ukulele-driven, 72-second masterpiece “Before I Knew,” Bulat immediately sounds distinctive and exciting, though in a very modest, warm manner. Next up is “I Was a Daughter,” which opens with acoustic guitar, sparse piano licks and handclap percussion before exploding into a true orchestral epic, again held together only by Bulat’s remarkable, breathy vocals. Bulat released singles to radio, recorded videos and sold rights to her songs to television commercials in the year or so leading up to the U.S. release of Darling, an album that was long in the works. This means that – at least for folks who listen to KEXP, watch Volkswagon commercials or surf YouTube incessantly – that much of the material on Darling has likely already hit your eardrums a few times. 

The ballad-y, made-for-fall “Little Waltz” could be heard while watching a white VW drive through fall leaves; “In the Night,” a popular high-concept video, has been available for viewing on YouTube for a while now, looking almost like a long lost Michel Gondry video; “Snakes and Ladders” and “Little One,” both amazing and elaborately composed songs, have been running on college radio for a year or more now; and a number of Darling’s other tracks have had live performances posted on YouTube for some time now, as the album was released to the U.K. market 10 months earlier. 

The real surprise here is the versatility Bulat offers throughout the duration of her lean, mean record. No two songs sound too much alike, and every last one of ‘em arrives fully baked, no rookie missteps in sight. At 24, the Canadian-born Bulat has released a unique batch of songs that position her as a future star of the folk-pop genre. Mitchell released Ladies of the Canyon at 27 and Blue at 28, giving Bulat a few good years to come up with a recording that lives up to the promise of songs like “The Pilgriming Vine,” “In the Night” and “I Was a Daughter.” Fingers crossed, Bulat is the leader of the next generation of songwriters, female, Canadian, folk-y or otherwise. (Greg Locke)

ANOTHER DAY WITH STEPHEN 

I can with no trouble recall buying my first Pavement CD (the Shady Lane EP, age 19) and I’ll never misplace the memories of the first time I saw that band’s leading man, Stephen Malkmus, perform after his band broke up, guitar solos ringing through his shaggy mop-top as he ironically tore through solos behind his head. I was much younger then and, no matter how much I loved all my Malkmus-releated albums, figured I’d come across an endless supply of modern artists who would appeal to me with the power Stephen did and still does. Regular Ease readers no doubt know how much I appreciate guys like Jeff Tweedy, Ryan Adams, David Berman, Paul Westerberg, Will Oldham and the like, but, sadly, I’ve never quite found another Malkmus. Not even close, actually.

I write this week from a slightly frazzled, self-indulgent state, one that finds me topped with oily hair, an empty bank account, greasy road-food burning in my gut and oil-barrel bags under my eyes. It’s a boring story, one that might demand a little bit of modest spice. Said frazzled state began after receiving word that a number of my friends who had - like me - gone online weeks earlier to pre-order a copy of Malkmus’ fourth solo album, Real Emotional Trash, had received their CD. No CD for me, not yet. Following another disappointing visit from the postman this past Saturday, I decided to spend the next day in the car, driving to out-of-town stores in search of a copy of said album. Sounds nuts, right? After all, my journey to find an album that was to be officially released on Tuesday, March 4 took place on Sunday, March 2. And on top of that, Matador Records had sent me a CDR copy of the album weeks earlier (hence the wordy review on page 27 of this issue), and I still had a pre-ordered copy of the disc scheduled to eventually hit my mailbox.

 Am I nuts? Sure, always have been. Irresponsible, too, but only about things like this. Daydreams of going into a store and picking up and purchasing the official issue of an album I knew I’d be listening to and cherishing for years to come can make me forget just about everything. The simple thought of holding an official copy of the new Malkmus album in my crazy hands for the first time had me running to my car on Sunday morning, worn-out copy of Slanted and Enchanted under my arm. I was drowsy and not exactly sure where I was headed, but I had a hero waiting for me and at least six hours before 5 p.m., the time most small retail stores close on Sundays.

Also in tow was a bag of old CDs no store in town seemed interested in buying from me, a warm can of third-rate Diet Dr. Pepper, a few Kinks albums and a tattered road atlas. Highway food aside, it was a fun trip for the most part, one that was successful in some ways and revelatory in others. But more on that later; we have a story to finish. The second store I went to, lucky for me, had received copies of Malkmus’ latest effort two days earlier and, street date be damned, contentedly scattered them all throughout their store. This was the place. I took the 40 or so superfluous albums from my collection I’d brought with me to the counter and within 15 minutes was offered $60 worth of in-store credit for about 30 of them - not exactly the deal of a lifetime. Fine, I thought, but I had to at least use the remaining $47 of credit on albums I couldn’t easily get in Fort Wayne. I couldn’t find any copies of my sub-mission, the two-disc reissue of Whiskeytown’s Stranger’s Almanac (which was also set to be released two days later), so I settled for J. Tillman’s Minor Works, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s Wilding In the West and Flowers Forevers’ eponymous debut. Oh, and I also found a copy of Swell Maps’ debut, A Trip to Marineville, an album that was always said to be one of the chief influences on Pavement’s early work. Very fitting, considering the day I was having. Not a bad haul, I figured, knowing full well that only Trash would reach the player on my ride home.

About halfway through my trek back to Sox-Smith Manner I started wondering if what I’d just done was acceptable. At 28 years old do I still have entire days to throw away? Is it still acceptable to selfishly forget about your life for a short time so you can skip town to only possibly acquire an official copy of an album you’ve already heard 60 times just one day before you could find it at your local record shop? No, it’s not okay. Or at least it probably isn’t to most people. Some people like tattoos or birthing children or jewelry or hard drugs or cars; people “like me” like albums. Need albums. Little $12-$16 plastic discs full of sound. Real physical product, not downloadable ones and zeroes that will someday be lost when your hard drive kicks the bucket. Despite their low-dollar prices, I’d argue that I like buying new albums from my heroes just as much as a professional athlete enjoys flying across the country to look at an expensive piece of jewelry. Every bit as much as an aspiring businessman fawns over the idea of treating himself to higher grade business cards.

Back home, five or so Trash-filled hours later, I took a nap, woke up and realized that I still resemble the person I discovered I was just a few years earlier. I hadn’t given up on my dreams or cooled on my passions as I so feared I would. I was still getting paid to work with music and still kept up with new artists and albums as much as ever. Maybe I’d lost my edge in other ways, but I was still sticking with the thing that had always been my thing: music. I came to the eventual conclusion that I’d grown up in many ways but could still allow myself occasional streaks of unplanned ridiculousness - something I think every sane person needs from time to time, if only as a way to measure their own lucidness. That, and I got to spend an entire extra day of my life listening to a killer album I’d only previously heard via the trashy MP3 format. No regrets. Not when you’re involved, Stephen.

Send your own hare-brained stories of obsession to me at greg.whatzup@gmail.com for possible publishing on this blog.

Ease Down the Road’s current four-disc rotation: Stephen Malkmus’ Real Emotional Trash; Swell Maps’ A Trip to Marineville; J. Tillman’s Minor Works; The Kinks’ Sleepwalker