Best Ever Albums

Re: Hayden in 2023

Hayden — Sun, 31 Dec 2023 23:14:28 GMT

Author: Hayden

Posted: 01/01/2024 04:14

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images of my childhood are often dusty, rustic and worn,
(not in the means of a western— I am not a saloon baby—)
but they’re from a time gone— homespun, jagged, dim—
when colours didn’t pop as much as wane, limp, bunch—
there’s this thin blur behind my eyelids (years, memories, life)
lined with maple-tones and palettes creased with crimson and khaki,
listening to the timbre of autumn leaves and snow piled six-feet high,
ecru upholstery and polaroids dwindling from too much time in the light—

craggy shores and ice-cold water— peeling birch riddled with beetles—
jumbled puzzle pieces, in banal rooms, indescribably distinct,
opening odd boxes bursting with musty odours of too much time,
fireflies in dusk and the stuffiness of airless space, the taste of trout bones—

I cannot wipe clean the flecks of dust spread atop echoes—
they are there.
brushed with acrylic ,
ringing free,
tinged with pigments of laughter,
naivety, and fragments of thought—
it is cement in the air—

the first time I saw a Pollock I wanted to touch it.
just to graze it with my fingers. the slightest bit of pressure.
the textured brushwork of Van Gogh’s palette-knife.
thick globby smudges and streaks that looked so… pokable—
smears. daubs. raised dollops. Matisse with his scissors and glue.
perhaps if we put No. 5, 1948 neath the stylus it would sound like Ayler—
Irises like Debussy—
The Sheaf like Eno—

the first time I saw I record I held the grooves right up to my eye—
a canvas—
and those days of birch bark rushed back / a slight tickle to the grain—

the past few months I have delved into the works of Connie Converse,
Sibylle Baier, Blaze Foley, Robert Lester Folsom and Bill Fay— Townes
Van Zandt, Elyse Weinberg, Trevor Beales Jackson C Frank and Nick Drake—
many of whom (Fay aside) never quite saw their day in the sun—
whose work aged with dust, and attained something only time can do /
and as I stroll to the wispy delivery of Hazey Jane II, triumphant brass
pillowing like a cloud, or Townes taking on Lightnin’s Chauffeur's Blues
from the intimate Old Quarter in Galveston, candid and solus, I
reminisce of pumpkin tones, shades of peach and pear, the golden
rustle of a wheat field and the burnt rich burgundy of Wasaga’s sun—
the fuzziness of forest moss and sparkle of melted snow—
as the water bobs and wood splashes wet /
Neil Young, Joni, Lightfoot, Cohen /
family, friends— a campfire in the breeze—
a sense of being— tangible, free to be whoever—

as I age into the unknown (as we all do), lost mid this muddle,
something comes rushing back insisting you be you—
through the textures, shades and tones which carved a sense of self,
vivid youth in the rearview / I hear myself though these twelve devilish
notes and the gaps between them— sewn in some baffling shape—

snow on the ground.
snug in a cardigan.
blood on my lips.
circles neath my eyes.

I have watched myself sprint the other way from my youth,
sifting the scattered blotches of warm sienna, walnut and copper
into something that is more-or-less a jumble— and I have wondered,
for most of this year, is it possible, probable and worthwhile, to not be you?
(whether or not you have any say in the matter) and vice-versa—

oh… tomorrow, you fool—

I am, by nature, a troublemaker— ethically, of course (well, ish)—
which, as time goes on, I do not regret (actually, almost the opposite)—
which may be why I affiliated myself so closely with jazz—
always slightly fight shy of classical correctness (for better or worse)
and why I veered towards a comfort from the genre—
most terms for steering away from the norm are antonyms.
un. ir. dis. out. off. (without veering into strange and bizarre).
away from the norm, with sanity. not wacky, zany, freakish or mad.
just a couple inches to the elsewhere.
that place— not un. ir. dis. out. or off.—
that’s all I sought. a place, unlabelled, only familiar in theory—

and as I step into the fog of a Parisian neo-noir, knowing no place to be,
when I think of being who you are if you are only you, and where
that leads you how/where/when/and why— the compass doesn’t point.

I know they knew in the moment they were them— and no matter how
much the canvas has been worn, the canvas holds true—
and more and more, it's this truth I value, seek and hear—
just someone being them—

there’s an A.Y. Jackson painting, First Snow, Algoma,
which features a billow of smoke in the centre of the composition.
it is, in essence, a clock.
as is the snow.
as are the shades of rolling beech and pine.
and that slim, slim wrinkle of light—

that is all.
it tells the time.
and that is all it needs to be.

December, 2023.
(Final entry)

Re: Hayden in 2023

Hayden — Thu, 30 Nov 2023 23:10:29 GMT

Author: Hayden

Posted: 12/01/2023 04:10

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cratedigging, somewhere on Ossington,
flipping through a stack of $100-a-pop
vintage hiphop records, secondhand, new,
and a copy of the Idler Wheel (used)
I spot a LP by Shakey Jake (little beat
around the edges) and a nice press of
Junior Wells' Hoodoo Blues for cheap—
zipping through the weathered $10 bin with
a fresh-Sharpied zero— heard none of'em,
not going to lie— remembering the
freshness of asking myself what I
thought The Pixies would sound like
as I stare at the haloed monkey, the
shadows woven tween Unknown Pleasures
and the cold bleakscape of painted peaks—
music tasted a little different. shapeshifting.

Yves Klein Blue (signature hue, ultramarine)
visually borderless, boundless, endlessly deep,
is a pigment of physical distance, unhuman,
a flatline, unmeasured, unfettered and free—
it is an ocean. it is sky. it is, in sense, an end—

in Canada, our milk comes in bags. this does
not stop the fact that at some point or another
'milk' (possibly Dairy Farmers of Canada, a very
powerful organization) decided crates needed
to become just a sliver smaller as so that a
12" record wouldn't be able to snuggly fit within
their walls (this, justly, was to stop audiophiles from
stealing milk crates, but it was undoubtedly the
decision of a grouch)— so, while I no longer house
records in a series of crates designed for bagged milk,
I recollect the first— stolen from whoknowswhere
by a guy, who, for some reason, I never learned the
name of, who vouched for Mahavishnu Orchestra,
Steely Dan and Weather Report, cigarette limping
out his mouth, handing me a slightly beat box
perfect for storing the five or six LPs I'd bought in
the previous weeks— it is what I think of when I
hear the name Derek Jarman. Yves Klein. Yves
Saint Laurent. Le Jardin Majorelle. Chefchaouen.
it was a box, deep blue, neutral— in a world of its own.

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a blue-screen (while, often associated with the death
of a beloved Microsoft product) was my go-to in lieu
of a green-screen when I began live production (news,
media, TV) longago, when I was learning what I could
and could not do— it reminded me of something free.
something which could be whatever it wished. it spoke.
existing, evoking... it was a muse which would never see the
screen— emotions of youth, ignorance, bliss and spring—
it was a canvas, reminding me— a solo can only exist if you say—

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when I began to consider form (I have, for better or worse,
always valued manner equal to substance) as a method
of everything— line, shape, texture, size, light, space—
I accounted sex, nature, found pattern, math and habit
(among other things) to assimilate, replicate, assess, construct
and criticize 'art'— what felt perfect, and why— in mirror—
truth became difficult— confusing, unclear— yet, magnificent.
a blemish is not a blemish. but a perfect note can be clutter.
there is no equivalent to a tree. there is no song that is a leaf.
there is no art that is the sea. there is no one piece which can be sky.
there is no story which mimics the honeybee's fractured wing.
a circle cannot be a circle. these things are mere theory.

and as I ran through jazz, blues and Motown 45s shelved
in a shipping-container-turned-record-shop, milk crates
stacked ceiling-high, it was so odd when I spotted a crate
the same shade as that one stolen a lifetime ago, when
I knew nothing, and a blur of all the faces along the way—
I did not look inside it. I could not. I did not want to know.
I have broken promises. I have made mistakes. I am I.
I know what Doolittle sounds like. Kid A. Loveless.
The vehemence of Braxton and Brotzmann and Ayler.
It is everything tied outside of it which makes me feel.
And I cannot unlearn.

Gustave Courbet painted L'Origine du monde twenty years
after Le Désespéré.

and it’s astonishing how much people care about parking.

November 2023.

Re: Hayden in 2023

Hayden — Tue, 31 Oct 2023 23:16:47 GMT

Author: Hayden

Posted: 11/01/2023 03:16

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Hayden — Wed, 1 Feb 2023 19:02:41 GMT

Author: Hayden

Posted: 02/02/2023 00:02

craola wrote:

I quite enjoyed this read. Perhaps my new favorite diary in the BEA forums. Eloquent. Relatable. We are dinosaurs, aren’t we?

Dinosaurs using canes to get to our knitting clubs, trying to pull off the word 'dank'—

And thanks, appreciate it— entire blip is a bit raw/lazy, but I think it gets the gist.
Goal will be ending each month with an entry. No idea what will be in the next, but I know a small handful of themes I want to tackle.

Re: Hayden in 2023

craola — Tue, 31 Jan 2023 00:28:37 GMT

Author: craola

Posted: 01/31/2023 05:28

I quite enjoyed this read. Perhaps my new favorite diary in the BEA forums. Eloquent. Relatable. We are dinosaurs, aren’t we?

Hayden in 2023

Hayden — Mon, 30 Jan 2023 20:42:54 GMT

Author: Hayden

Posted: 01/31/2023 01:42

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We’re entering, hopefully, something identifiable as post-pandemic—
Couple years back I did not think 2023 would be ‘post-pandemic’
One day, it'll be post-pandemic—

These few weeks seem to have been designed for introspection
A lot is ending, a lot is beginning,
The month feels like an arch
The smallest, sharpest pivot—

I hit shuffle on Frank Ocean’s Blonde the other day on the way to work
I hadn’t heard the album since 2019
Now noticing how he’s there fleetingly, only when he needs to be
Most of the album is world building
I lucked out with the shuffle— thought the order was better than the original—
Coincidentally, it still began with Nikes and ended with Future Free
I got to work with a couple of tracks left, so I just let it play,
reading a series of headlines—
“Sudden acts of violence? Get used to it.”
David Crosby is dead.
Post-pandemic.
We are in post-pandemic I remind myself.
It’s snowing.

My trusty, dependable, comfy, homey, unquestionably underrated (and discontinued) Polk headphones bit the dust last year—
I replaced them with a pair of Bose QuietComfort,
(which were certainly a splurge, but I’ve always had a bucket-list desire to own Bose headphones)...
(and they were on sale)—
It was about time I transitioned to wireless headphones,
I’m still adjusting to the freedom—
I’m used to holding my head so still while wearing headphones, but now I can leave my device somewhere, and move—
They have a noise cancellation feature that surpasses holding pillows to your ears—
The first time I put them on I thought the power went out.
Yet — and, I still believe this — they don’t sound as nice as my Polks.
That Scandanavian-esque crispness (a la Bowers & Wilkins, etc)
Warm, wood palette—
No, they’re rather flat…
But at least I don’t hear anything else

Holiday cards are jumbled in my desk
Haven’t seen the sun for three months

On the way back I listened to something I hadn’t played in ages—
Bill Callahan’s Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle
Why did I not make this? Why am I not making this?
Because I’m not Bill Callahan
I shouldn’t be making a Bill Callahan record
I want to make a Bill Callahan record
But then it would be Bill’s
Didn’t get around to finishing it, didn’t have time, paused—
hit play on the final track later that night—

Week after week I find myself sharing a rather small room with a group of a dozen or so teenagers—
(Somehow the room keeps changing, don’t ask)—
They’re local volunteers. I supervise them.
They get their hours. Graduate.
I get paid.
It all works out.

I bought my first iPhone in 2022.
The background on it is a Keith Haring-esque version of Frank Ocean’s Blonde
I had a teen notice it the other day, and they said ‘I learned about that guy in school!’
And I asked - Frank Ocean?
‘No, no - the art guy, he did graffiti!’
‘Oh - Keith Haring.’
‘Yeah! That guy.’
In that moment I realized I hadn’t listened to Blonde in almost four years.
They mention music a bit— makes sense—
Most are in that early ‘discovery’ phase, but it’s very different than mine,
Or the generation before mine,
Or the generation before that—
They know Kendrick, SZA, Tyler, James Blake—
(some of who, as baffling as it sounds, have released albums since these people were two-year-olds)
—typically, they find stuff on Spotify (not premium)
None of them listen to the radio (and two of them had never)
Only two or three have ever pirated music, most don’t know how,
Most don’t see why—
There’s no dig anymore. It’s there. It’s right there.
They did prove to me they knew how to use a VCR though—

Found some speakers and connected to them via Bluetooth, which I thought would be a colossal kerfuffle of passenger-seat-driver-chaos, but it worked out bizarrely peaceful— surprised how many of them let me just play music—

Is it weird that I was lost? I hadn’t a clue what to play at first. I was almost intimidated. I can DJ, whatever, but I knew I’d get skewed either way—
maybe I’m starting to ‘not-be-with it/hip’, not the cool rebellious youth anymore—
but you know what? It was okay—

Shuffled a bit. Neo-soul. Hip-hop. Indie pop. Things went over well with Noname’s 25— listened to near the entire record— acouple of Pharcyde tracks, Lauryn Hill, Genesis Owusu, St. Vincent— then when Belida Says came on, many said they knew it from TikTok, and I though ‘huh- k’, then Thundercat’s Changes came on and some said they knew that from TikTok too– (I, as you can tell, do not have TikTok, no matter the amount of them I have seen against my will)— acouple of them dug Wednesday, and I remember a Magdalena Bay track landing the soundtrack, so I played Secrets (Your Fire) and was shocked that almost all of them knew it (some through TikTok, some from siblings/parents/friends), but they knew it, and it kinda threw me for a loop. Day wound down and I started going back and forth with some Dilla / Pete Rock / Madlib instrumentals (which, got called elevator music several times, but in a loving way). Then I took a big leap— I hit play on an instrumental hip-hop record I made with friends nearly a decade ago now (which freaked me out) — it wasn’t bad. Aged okay. Nobody thought it was a dip in quality or anything (albeit, I have without question realized we could have trimmed 30-40% off most of those tracks… woops)

From that, I went home—
I needed to relisten (on my Bose headphones) to my last two releases
neither of which I’ve poked since releasing (2019 and 2021—)
Mango was first,
completely forgot I sampled Lana Del Rey on the intro and outro of that one— it was a few months pre-NFR—)
The record has an energy to it that I just don’t have anymore
I’m proud of it though— it’s good. I made something good, and I’m happy about that.
I’ve lost skills over time
I know that—
But I question what I used them for anyway…
Obsessing over uniqueness, pulling off production tricks
Trying to act like a skateboarder devising some trick that’s never been seen — but it’s still a skateboard trick—
and whether I should have put more thought into songwriting (which, was not disregarded, but felt out of place for the final product)—
More like Bill.
But I’m not Bill.
Am I Bill?
Am I Frank?
I'm not Frank—

In 2021 I released Geranium— built around the sound palette of elastic bands and a broken cassette tape—
textures, weaving, waving, wobbling—
bending, flexing, winding, tapping—
a darker, bass-driven sound—
giving it another listen, my ears remembered it more than Mango. SOPHIE died. DOOM died.
That month hit me. I was low. And this album knows it. But… I’m happy with what it resulted in. I’m content.
It came out of somewhere I don't miss, but it's there— I hear it—

The following day, a zen meditation session featuring a 1959 Japanese chant did not go over well.
Many gave me confused looks. I flipped over to Erykah Badu.

I know I’ve had a bit of an energy shift the last year.
I wrote about half an album in late 2021 that I haven’t worked on finishing and it kinda haunts me that I’m ignoring it.
My tastes are changing. I’m not writing as well as I should be. I’m not thinking as well as I should be—

‘We’re entering a different era!’
‘The vibe has changed’ — various teenagers
While we aren’t entering a post-apocalypse by any means, there will undeniably be a personality shift.
Things broke. Rules broke. Standards broke.
I see a generation who knows no bounds but two — death and capitalism
They see it, they recognize it, yet they fear neither, and everything apart from those two things is fiction.

And then I felt something very concerning.
Something that I thought would happen when I was their age—
I feel like an adult.

When I took on
listened to nothing but free jazz for four months late 2018,
or my Canadiana dig of 2020
my blues dig in 2021 (which, may have been the most fulfilling— I think I actually achieved something with this one)
I felt like a ‘successful music listener’—
Whatever that is.
(it is not a thing)
I didn’t do a chart-worthy dig this year, but I have been revisiting the 70s (well, in particular, filling in the gaps I missed with the 70s)—
but when I work with the next generation,
I think of old records,
discovering Television, The Smiths, Belle & Sebastian, Sigur Rós, My Bloody Valentine—
what it felt when I found a really great song—
memories, of when I was their age— which, genuinely, was not that long ago, nor does it feel like it—
and how I’ve disregarded what no one day shows—
They know there is no such thing as a music collector anymore—
they have it all—
They’re here for everything. And they know one day they will be gone.
It is staggering how much they acknowledge this—
Including a rather dark humoured teen who has fought/won/fought/won/and fought with cancer her entire life—
There is no successful music listener.
Not anymore.
Perhaps not ever.
The successful music listener exists only to one's own definition.
Be it.

I watched Lukas Dhont’s Close the other day.
It would be good if it wasn’t contrived.
It was good.
But it wasn’t.
It’s fake.
It’s a movie.
I craved something more.

With all this talk of BIll and Franks, I was hit with a brick last night—
Episode three of The Last of Us knocked me sideways—
Beautiful, unexpected, heartfelt and honest—
Made me feel alive and full of light—
The quality of mediums is changing.
Tom Verlaine is dead.

I’m surprised by the introvertedness which came out of this all
(the pandemic)
how many of them tell me they aren’t that outgoing at school, work, etc
yet they could perform as boldly as any drama major when in the right company
How many get hit with FOMO (and how many are surprised that I know what that means— and what rizz is)
and how I know that this time around it is true—
they will change the world,
because they have grown through a world we have never seen—

albeit tired, the next generation is fearless,
with endless resources
and they’re an absolute united force like I’ve never seen—

yet, looking forward to what’s next,
I have no idea where I will be looking from when I see it.

January, 2023