November 2000, Eugene. I went to see a Scottish band called the Delgados on a whim. It was a tour stop that probably wasn’t such a good idea for them; they weren’t known enough to draw more than 30 or so people in a Northwest college town. Still, great show. Their songs moved in waves—quiet melodies rolling into crushing choruses. Emma Pollock held the seams, her vocals perfectly fitting themselves to the music’s flexing mood and momentum.

March 2007, Manhattan. I went to see Emma Pollock, debuting some of her solo songs in a dark, upstairs café space. Playing acoustic guitar and accompanied by piano, Emma sang these beautifully crafted, expressive compositions. I specifically remember “Limbs,” with lyrics juxtaposing the capacity of the body (“These limbs / They can take you higher”) and the ultimate frailty of the body (“These limbs / They can break like branches”). The words “these limbs” seem to sprout out of the song—a small but powerful rhythmic change.

December 2009, Berkeley. I listened to Emma Pollock’s first album on a cold California day, hands shoved in pockets and wintry air in my face. This context fit the record, which has a melancholy about it. The idea of “space” is thematically dominant. Specifically, empty space—hollows and silence where things have gone missing. Pop hooks are here, often tempered by sadness in vocal or topic, contained in supple arrangements. Emma’s voice still holds the seams: choruses build, soar, and then back off; they go odd, swirl around, and then drop back into the pocket. A lot of moments to uncover and enjoy.

(About this project.)

From Scene to Shining Scene is Chixdiggit’s third album, and it’s pretty much like all the others. Quick, packed songs, with unexpected twists: the extended syllable (“She still thinks we should get ma-a-aried”) before the first pre-chorus on “Folks Are Gone”; the vocal quickening in the refrain lead-up on “My Dad vs. Paul McCartney”; the sticky-sweet power-pop outro on “Melissa Louise,” etc. I like this band because they keep it relatively simple, but throw in these distinctive flourishes. It’s a good record.

I’ve been thinking, also, about how self-awareness is such an important part of the Chixdiggit aesthetic. In a lot of cases, they’re almost a pop-punk band about being a pop-punk band. That is, they consistently call attention to the construction of their work, as well as its genre. Sometimes, they comment in lyrics: “I’ll save that for another song”; “I ain’t so good with my analogies,” after a convoluted line. Other times, the work itself is a comment: “Spanish Fever” is an exotic-girl song that makes fun of exotic-girl songs (“Did I mention that we went to Spain?”), while “Gimme Gimme Aromatherapy” is a Ramones concept made even more silly. And live, the band has often deconstructed a “set” by purposely talking and psyching up the crowd more than actually playing.

Pop-punk being an essentially limiting genre, this sort of ironic distance—while still embracing the form musically—is interesting. Grath Madden, very much influenced by Chixdiggit, does (or did) this kind of thing all the time in the Steinways—like, “I wrote a couple of e-mails and a song about a girl / Oh girl, yes girl, hey hey hey, girl girl girl.” And I’m so into that because I’ve heard a million songs that go on about the girl, and it usually is just standard nonsense. I appreciate bands who show the listener that they’re aware of this nonsense, and of “pop-punk” as a construct. And hopefully, like Chixdiggit, do something cool with that understanding.

(About this project.)

Bis make me smile. In the late ’90s, they blended elements of riot grrrl, indie, and dance, to create these fun-sized bars of breathless, youthful pop. But the songs weren’t really the entire point; Bis had more of an agenda. Their music, art, and liner notes establish a social/political aesthetic, almost a call to arms. It’s all about “the kids” seizing power, feeling free to dance and make art, ridiculing the privileged status quo. The band’s debut album (The New Transistor Heroes) opens, for instance, with a track called “Tell It to the Kids.” Calling out homophobes, cynics, fascists, businessmen, and backstabbers (i.e., adults), the chorus insists, “No use running now, we know what you did / We’re gonna tell it to the kids, tell it to the kids.” When I was a teenager listening to this stuff, it felt empowering. This band was on my side, whether I wanted to eat candy, write zines, or hate the rich.

Intendo is an early-career rarities collection that furthers the band’s social and musical stance. Not paradoxically, it starts with “Statement of Intent.” “[We’re] making discos of your castles / Tearing up your plans,” Bis tells the older generation. They are threatening the establishment’s symbols and tools of money/power with both dance and destruction—a revolution, but a fun one. “Famous” continues the band’s related theme of tweaking the rich, famous, and pretentious, sketching an untouchable starlet who is too self-absorbed to connect with the regular people (“It’s just... I’m so famous”). In these songs, Bis want us think past the accepted measures of status, to be part of a rising tide of kids (whether invented or not) hip to the game and ready to reject it.

On other tracks, Bis speak up for feminist role models (“Girl Star”), individuality (“Cookie Cutter Kid”), and self-reliance (“Kid Cut”). These aren’t easy topics. Indeed, what’s great about this band is that they embedded their rebellion in these little lite-brite punky pop songs, making it playful. Bis say in Intendo’s liner notes, “If we are the underclass, then the proletariat is rising, and we are glamorous.” It’s a heavy-handed sentence, but it speaks to the mission: to make revolution appealing and inclusive to all. 10 years on, I know that Bis were idealistic. But I also see that their kind of idealism is mostly missing in punk and indie-rock these days. Putting on this record was a reminder that it may still be out there, bubbling under.

(About this project.)

I saw the Pixies for the first time on Monday, as they played the second of three local shows on their Doolittle album tour. My excitement was high: I’ve been listening to the band for over a decade, and their songs have wormed their way into my life—from teenage cassette dubs to a Valentine’s Day mix for my girlfriend (“Allison,” of course). I love them, and I regard them as these idols of indie-rock weirdness and awesomeness, because damn, nobody sounds like the Pixies. Doolittle (not my favorite album, but the first one I bought) got a little play in the weeks preceding, but not too much, because I wanted to be at least somewhat “surprised” by the set. And I was caught off guard, both by the surety of the band as showmen, and by their mix of material.

Oakland’s Fox Theater, a palatial ’20s movie house, suited the production. The Pixies’ stage show—pixellated video images relating to the album, lyrics, band, and eventually, the audience; an inflated axel and four spheres, which choreographically floated up and down—worked with the setting: a sort of mysterious majesty that put the audience into the band’s world. House lights dark, Un Chien Andalou, suspense. And then the Pixies, loud and charging into album B-sides, blinding white light and fog behind them. It was an impressive start. The challenge of an album show or tour is to give the audience what they expect, but also to satisfy and surprise them. Post-reunion, the Pixies are veterans of putting on a “big” show; they know what they’re doing. The B-sides thing satiates the hardcore fans, and gives the band some variety and breathing room in their set list. Doolittle sounded great, of course, with people losing their minds during the big hits. (Makes you realize that the record is a bit front-loaded, though.) And then it was back for the encore of a couple more rarities and the other-album sing-along songs. Good show.

But, I realized when the Pixies first hit the stage, I would have enjoyed it more had I known the B-sides—all helpfully contained on a CD I bought in 2001. Listening to it today, I’m sorry I didn’t get to it sooner. Though obviously not as cohesive as the individual full-lengths, Complete B-Sides is a concise, charmingly jumbled collection. It effectively captures the varied aspects of the band’s aesthetic.

“River Euphrates,” the opening track, is a definitive Pixies song. Frank Black’s lead vocals are tuneful but imperfect as he sings with eccentric conviction. Joey Santiago and Kim Deal do those chiming, catchy back-ups. And the whole band does that loud-quiet-loud thing, expertly building and backing off, alternating between abrasive and crazy-poppy. A live version of “Vamos” shows the whole deal in quicker, scattered, punky form. It sounds almost improvised. I like this: bringing novelty to a familiar track, making it sound like it’s coming apart at the seams, but holding it all together in focused intensity. That intensity carries forward to other tracks at the beginning of the album: “In Heaven” and “Into the White” escalate to blaring climaxes, the former showcasing the sort of madness that Black can bring to his vocals.

Elsewhere, the band’s melodic side comes to the forefront. We get weirdo garage-pop (“Manta Ray”), latin-guit rockabilly (“Weird at My School”), and a slower version of “Wave of Mutilation” that brings out the song’s subtleties and prettiness. And going with that mellow pop motif, Complete B-Sides offers two Neil Young covers (“I’ve Been Waiting for You” and “Winterlong”—graceful, passionate arrangements) that make me want to seriously re-evaluate that dude’s work.

It‘s nice to hear the band paying tribute to an influence like Neil. In my mind, I don’t automatically group them with any clear predecessors; again, nobody sounds like the Pixies. Their talent was that they were able to take a range of far-flung influences, and channel them into something completely unique. This collection references (in sound or lyric) David Lynch, the Yardbirds, Puerto Rico, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, and Debbie Gibson, among others. That list is a mess, but as I said, it’s charmingly jumbled. Some of the tracks here aren’t essential, but I’m happy they’re around. This record is an opportunity to rummage in the proverbial junk drawer—and a junk drawer invariably has some cool stuff—of a favorite band.

(About this project.)

Pity the brilliant band who is known primarily as a one-hit wonder. Yeah, “Come On Eileen” is great. But Dexy’s offer a hell of a lot more. Kevin Rowland and Kevin “Al” Archer had a distinct vision as they assembled this group. And as a result, they sound like no one else. Catchy new wave songs spiked with soul, or catchy soul songs spiked with new wave—whatever you want to call it—is probably the best idea ever, if you want to get technical about it.

Searching for the Young Soul Rebels is the first album, and it feels like a fantastic concept that’s just gaining its feet. Too-Rye-Ay is the masterpiece, but this has its moments, too. What I love about Dexy’s is the world they create on their records. This one starts with radio tuning that abruptly switches off—signaling that what we’ll hear is unlike anything familiar. They go on to conjure this experience of toughs, beers, and crying in smoky clubs. Rowland’s vocals are both enthusiastic and plaintive on songs like “Tell Me When My Light Turns Green”: “Seen quite a bit in my 23 years / I’ve been manic depressive / And spat a few tears.” Drums and horns propel the songs to emotional and musical climaxes. As paradoxical as it may sound, this is soul from a young, white, British perspective. It’s smart, it’s moving, and it’s really fun to listen to.

(About this project.)