Queue: “Take the ‘A’ Train — Duke Ellington Orchestra”

Okay, here it is: my very first piece. The one historian’s will analyze when deciphering the mystery that is “Peewafe.” At least, that’s how it feels in my egotistical, terrified mind. Sitting alone in a deserted library isn’t helping either; at least I’m not writing on a Macbook. I’ve been forced to the back since I’m too nervous to share a table with the “Charles Manson” looking dude. Unfortunately, there’s nopower outlets back here: looks like I’m on a tight schedule this morning.

Writing a review can be a daunting task— choosing something to review is a entirely different thing. Do I choose an album? A film? A music video? Which band? What director? I could write this entire piece about choosing something worth reviewing, if I wanted to; but I don’t. I chose something I know well, however I realize if this were a real review; I would likely be writing about something I’ve never heard. With that in mind I’m still taking the easy route and reviewing a Strokes song.

The track I’m listening to today is “Call It Fate, Call It Karma.” It’s the last track on The Strokes latest release, “Comedown Machine.”

This is very important: if you have any preconceived ideas of The Strokes, leave them here. This is a song that doesn’t deserve any criticism based on the band’s prior work, or opinions about the band’s current state.

Queue: “The Strokes — Call It Fate, Call It Karma”

Now, If you’re actually listening to the song; you’re probably having a hard time to read and listen simultaneously. I completely understand if you want to stop and just listen to the song, you won’t hurt my feelings. In fact I can’t even write while this shit is playing, so I’ll be back in a minute.

Alright! What the fuck was that, right? Did Billie Holiday come back from the dead, have a sex change, and then record this? Maybe Zombie Holiday and Micheal Jackson had a child; a child who turned out to be Julian Casablancas? I started writing this as a joke; then it dawned on me that I view Julian Casablancas in the same light as Billie Holiday and (above? maybe?)Micheal Jackson (?).

Ain’t that some shit.

“Call It Fate, Call It Karma” is like nothing I’ve heard before. At a first glance it sounds like some sort of throw back; an experiment, or even a gimmick. Then, after about fifteen seconds, you realize it isn’t something to be taken lightly. There are a thousand little things you can pick and choose from, the vocal melody, the thirties microphone effect, the incredible breakdown at the end.

The first piece that catches my ear is the bass line. It’s simple, while achieving exactly what is needed. It doesn’t distract you from the beautiful guitar tones or flow of the song.

Another thing I can’t wrap my mind around is the texture of the vocals. They’re incredibly smooth while staying crisp and sounding like they were recorded in nineteen-thirty-five. I’m reminded of the Ray Charles song “I Believe To My Soul.” The vocal sound has the flavor of something recorded decades ago; while retaining modern studio quality and definition.

By this point I’ve listened to the track several times and every time I find myself waiting for the same part; the chorus. I dare say its the best I have ever heard. I will say, I’ve never heard something so pious and awe filled in my time listening to music. Nothing has given me goosebumps, or made me question my existence as consistently as this hook. I almost would say it sounds like the elevator music to heaven; but it’s better than that.

As I write, I realize this is becoming less of a review, and more of Brain-to-finger-diarrhea; and I’m okay with that.

Queue: “New York Dolls — Chatterbox”

God damn, thinking that in-depth about a song doesn’t feel right. If you dissect the wrong song you can completely ruin it. Luckily “Call it Fate, Call it Karma” is nearly impossible to ruin. I feel like most of The Strokes material is safe to dive into, but that’s not the point of their music. Although, when a song provokes such a strong connection emotionally; you can’t not listen to it a thousand times and pick it apart.

Then, you climb off your high “music intellectual” horse, listen to the New York Dolls and drink beer with your friends. And if you don’t have any friends, you still have beer and the New York Dolls. Yeah, I just started a sentence with “and,” fuck you. Why are you even still reading this? Have you not yet thought to yourself: “This fucking asshole has no idea what he’s talking about,” because I have; several times.