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9-24-08 // 8:34 am mister teenage melodrama I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning while toweling off after my shower, and as I stretched and reached and moved, I was pleased with the way my body looked. I feel like the months-long reaffirmation of my commitment to fitness, diet & exercise -- walking, the push-ups, the sit-ups, the pull-ups, the watching what I eat -- it's paying off. I want to look good naked, and I think that I rather do. Now I suppose all I need is someone to look good naked for. The new Death Cab For Cutie album has been doing a surprisingly good job of bolstering my spirits so far this week. It was completely unexpected, especially after how dour and pretentious "Plans" so often came across as. I dunno, I'm sure I'm engaging in some classic "reading into things" behavior with this album (just call me Mister Teenage Melodrama, I guess), but "Narrow Stairs" has come out of left field and become my break-up record, as well as my transition album. I just feel parallels, and I hear sadness and confusion and difficulty adjusting in Ben Gibbard's voice and words -- not only with people and love, but with life and next steps, as well. I hear frustration and impotent hope that things will get better, even though they're only getting worse. It's a surprisingly tight, no-nonsense album that makes me want to play it over and over again, which is something I completely did not expect. Musically, it impresses me with its economy -- which sounds like a backhanded compliment, but it isn't. It's simply that the songs don't feel fussed over in the slightest -- they come across as birthed completely as the band intended, like they heard in their heads what they wanted to pound out and they did it, no deliberation, no time to overcook it. I love how Bixby Canyon Bridge starts off all slow, with some excellent Gibbard melodic turns of phrase, and then just goes all explosive and noisy. Then I Will Possess Your Heart decides it wants to be something off of the Cure's "Disintegration" mixed with the stalker's love song of the Police's Every Breath You Take. Then you get a sunny, effortless pop song about fading dreams and the loss of idealism, followed up by a muscular riff-fest imploring a woman (a former love?) not to marry the wrong guy. The way the Beach Boys pastiche of You Can Do Better Than Me merges straight into the slow-burning (no pun intended) Grapevine Fires is a thing of beauty, a stellar example of the subtle musical moves the band makes so well when it's on its game. There's also something insanely affecting about Your New Twin Sized Bed's wallow-y self-examination, and, near the end, it comes complete with Gibbard's other truly masterful melodic twist. I won't pretend that it's an amazingly brilliant album -- Your Talking Bird is too high-concept and not musically interesting enough, even if it does continue the album's emotional arc. Long Division and Pity And Fear are passable but drag out the album's home stretch, but things redeem themselves by ending on a steely-hearted, resigned note with the sparse, plain-spoken The Ice Is Getting Thinner. It's a fitting summary of the album's heartbroken, yet often indecisive mood -- things are melting and falling apart all around, so do I jump off the floe right now and attempt to swim to safety, or hang on to see if maybe it'll take me where I want to go, but possibly drown in the process? I don't need an iPhone, but I want an iPhone. Badly. Although I think my desire for a new, proper digital SLR camera is way stronger and has been going on for a year now, so I believe that will be my first big purchase whenever all of my post-moving expenses die down, my pay schedule normalizes and I can start socking away money like I know I'll be capable of doing.
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