
Short version: Nick deWitt’s new teardrops 12″ is fucken rad and you should totally buy 6 copies and give 5 to the cavs starters, who now that they have been eliminated from the playoffs have plenty of time to discover the secret pleasures of this disc. LOL. get it here.
Long version:
These days the Los Angeles experimental/punk scene has more than arrived, it is now gilt with a patina of reverence. The Smell and a core of bands associated with the venue are enjoying the benefits of a well-deserved hallowed reputation. The governing memes of this city’s werido arts culture revolve around metaphors which suggest perserverance in otherwise bewildering times. “Hope” and “Family” being indicative goal-posts for this tiny little era, we all take it as a point of pride that the sunny and gentle ways we feel have begun to speak to so many others. The heroes of these events are many, and often have eluded celebrity. But if ideas like the ones implied by LA’s ‘other’ engines of musical production (I mean the sweatstained, all ages, house show, split seven inch ones) are to mean much, then celebrity might be what’s at stake after all.
Zooming out from this the music industry is fucked. This is sadly not due to any of the dogged efforts of 70s, 80s, and 90s punk enragees but rather to a technical development in music file formatting. The mp3 is the little drop of water that dripped into the center of the boulder and froze. The boulder split, sundered. And somehow people are acting like this is a bad thing. Perhaps ‘the album’ is dead, and great works will shorten and diminish slowly until 15 second videos of people getting kicked in the nuts will win the booker prize or compete for arts funding, but if this is an inevitability, i’m hesitant to predict it. Somehow i think, however, that what will (re)emerge from this sweet little shitstorm, is a good thing. A so-good thing that one becomes ticklish imagining it. The relevance of any one work in particular is threatened. The walls between records are eroded everyday, made dust-to-dust and judged alike in the firm and just eyes of your itunes browser. A song is a song, the facts of the song have been reduced to meta-tags, the record and its cover’s glorious past now enshrined in a .jpg no bigger than 700 pixels or so wide (when/if it is even enlarged). But guess what is coming back, all return-of the repressed style like a murdered dad turned hideous and fearsome and worshipped as god. You guessed it! The oeuvre. If no single work is important in particular, then the sum total of our work till we’re dead the only thing to strive for.
Enter this teardrops 12″ by Nick Dewitt. A valued member of the LA scene, a virtuosic multi-instrumentalist with a clear and idiosyncratic vision, and an artist with the wherewithall and power to call on inspiration from more eras than most are even aware of. This record is brief, but is full of solid and honest songs which both embody the LA zeitgeist and reach threateningly past it. Evident here are some sunny tropes, the small stories and subtle triumphs of life are cast in beautiful relief. But what is truly remarkable about the record, and what sets it firmly apart from others in its ilk are the downright serious moments. There is a confrontation with human solitude (what would have been called ‘the existential question’ by our grandparents’ generation) on the last and longest track on the album, which borders on timeless. Not timeless in a ‘too drunk to fuck’ way. Timeless in a ‘bolero’ way. Clearly it’s too early to tell, but I feel less hesitant predicting that the oeuvre of Nick Dewitt will continue to bear fruits that seem to come from distant times (forward and/or back). If purchasing an album, on vinyl of all things, feels like an anachronism to you (which, let’s face it, if you’re reading this, it probably does not), then you should certainly buy this one. If you are accustomed to buying current LPs with full-bleed color photograph covers on lavender vinyl, then you also might benefit from picking up this record, because in this case, the art direction is an afterthought to a carefully ministrated work, and is matched (if not surpassed) by the actual music it makes when played. It’s an idea that is more exciting, because less new. Purchase “Supernatural Punishment” from Teardrops here.