There are cities underneath cities, cities beneath the sea

Last weekend, in Lyon, we found ourselves lining up to watch a Gravenhurst concert, which was being held on a boat along the Rhone. I’ve never heard of the band before; we had called Lionel earlier that week to ask what he and his girlfriend Magali were doing that weekend, and they told us they were going to the concert.

One of the most influential – and memorable – albums in the life of Fangirl Kala a.k.a. “Me” is My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless. I know this means that Gravenhurst will be an influential and memorable one as well, because during the concert I felt the way I always feel whenever I listen to MBV. A bit lightheaded, but heavy, heavy, heavy.

Of course, it was probably because the damn boat kept on swaying, but you know what I mean.

I really miss having friends, our Lyonnais friends, around. I love living in Aix, but I’d give almost anything to have them move down to the South. As you can see, I am a very selfish person, because I wouldn’t dream of moving back to Lyon. Because I love sunshine too much.

I’m listening to the lastest album of The Strokes, and I can’t decide what to make of it. One sure thing is that it’s the complete opposite of their debut (why are their guitar solos suddenly so complicated?), but changing isn’t necessarily a bad thing, is it? Julian Casablancas’ voice sounds so… clear. And full. Nothing like the rawness of the first album. He still sounds bored, but there’s a tinge of desperateness to his singing that I like. It sounds like he woke up knowing that there’s a problem to solve, but like everyone, he just doesn’t know where to start.

When the Smashing Pumpkin’s Adore came out in 1998, I was beside myself in excitement (“almost drooling, like a dog”, said my sister, Doctor Doom, in disgust). I was visiting Doctor Doom then, who was studying in UP Manila, so I dragged her to Robinson’s Place and combed the music store for the tape (yeah, I’m cheap), and once I got my greedy hands on it I hopped into a taxi and listened to it on my Walkman all the way home. It was a letdown. After the magic of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, it was anticlimactic.

I picked it up again two years later, and I think that’s when the slowness of the songs became appealing. There’s something in the album that makes you feel like you’re falling into a hole, but it’s okay, everything’s okay.

But don’t ask me about Machina. I don’t have anything nice to say about it.

Maybe we’re all living, talking, breathing Rock Band Discographies. Or at least, that’s how I feel. My “albums” are my age brackets, and I’m the critic of each one. I feel like I’m changing course, more so now that I’ve been living in France. Making the decision to live in France was an adventure, my debut album. I whistled while packing. I had just signed up with the label ‘Who Knows But Who Cares’, and my album was going to make a fortune! That was my experimental record, where everything was fresh and new and giddy.

Now, though, my latest album is quite the opposite. Instead of giving the dirty finger or sticking out my tongue for magazine cover shoots (yes, I’m really going overboard with the whole band bit), I’m looking tired from all the touring (let it be known that my world tour was a success). But deep down I’m not tired. My song lyrics are all about the occasional bouts of homesickness, the stupidity of quitting smoking, and library book deadlines which I can never seem to meet. It doesn’t mean that I’m a hundred percent bored, or desperate, or sad, or angsty. It’s just that – like I said about the Pumpkins and Julian Casablancas – I don’t know where to start; and though it’s heavy and light at the same time, I know it’s going to be okay.

Interesting, huh? Go get a copy! No pirating!

Back to the Gravenhurst concert…

Yves teased me about the probability of me not being able to see the group play, since we were almost by the bar, around 10 feet away from the stage. I showed him the boots I was wearing, equipped with heels, adding a measly 2 inches to my height, and told him that Julien would lift me up anyway, like he always does during concerts (mainly to shut me up when I start tugging at his shirt saying “I can’t see! What’s happening?!”). But Gravenhurst was so good that I abandoned my friends and squeezed my way to the front (an advantage of being un-tall ) and stationed myself in front of the drummer.

What is it about drummers? They’re dreamy. This is the Fangirl in me talking here. They’re like dancers, in a constant state of epilepsy. I was mesmerized at how his arms didn’t seem to be hitting his drum kit; at one point he was just a blur of hands and sticks, his eyes half-closed. A boat crossed the Rhone, whose waves launched us into minutes of crazy swaying until I got dizzy and had to close my eyes. But yeah… drummers. Dreamy.

Last week, on account of Makis’ fascination with the Abyss after a TV documentary she happened to see, she invited me over to watch a replay. And she was right – it’s beautiful down there. The animals are mind-boggling. The abyss is a treasure chest of the Weird and the Damned. We both agreed that if the sea were emptied of all its water, it would probably be the creepiest and most beautiful sight the eye could ever see. Just like the Gravenhurst song predicted: There are cities underneath cities. Cities beneath the sea.

Currently listening to:
Gravenhurst
Fires in Distant Buildings