Plug In To The Low Anthem
‘This Goddamn House’ by Dan Lefkowitz
She left me here with breakfast in bed
Oatmeal with sugar and a hard-boiled egg
The note on the dresser said I’ll be back by three
I’m going uptown, did you need anything?
And don’t forget to comb your hair
I’ll be back by three, I hope you’re still there
Now the kitchen is empty and the dishwater’s cold
The newspaper on the table is three days old
I’ve read every book on the living room shelf
I’m losing my mind in this goddamn house
The Low Anthem’s sparse production is the perfect picture frame for this band’s strange and affecting music. Their emotionally-charged stories are deftly delivered in swaddling fok instrumentation — pump organ, piano, acoustic guitar, double bass, cornet, folk crotales, and especially Jocie Adams’ haunting clarinet. As lead singer, Ben Knox Miller expells his demons along with the words. Jocie and Jeffrey Prystowsky leave ghostly harmonies and instrumentation to complete the band’s original aural folk paintings.
I defy you to turn down lights in the late of the evening, put your head back, and turn on “This Goddamn House,” “Ghost Woman Blues,” “Charlie Darwin, “To Ohio” or “To the Ghosts Who Wrote History Books” without the raising of excitated goosebumps. The thrill that comes when someone’s music or other creative endeavor DCs with your spirit. Beyond music, it’s electric…a static ball, sparking the soul, not the hair. Like Voux Deux, The Low Anthem provide an outlet to connect.
Plug in.
Deep Writer
Hmmm…another reason to power up my iPhone? Mobile blogging! It may replace mobile Kindling as my new favorite pastime when I seek privacy. Of course, there’s the little problem of inspiration.
Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway surely cleared their desks, found some fresh paper, and took to writing their great novels in a well thought-out process that demanded planning. Will this bit of extemporaneous, wide open, thought faucet spill of words mean anything?
Well, I’m already slopping up the screen with a readable font, so what hey! I might as well keep pouring them out, and see what happens.
The only issue that might make this a short story is my haunches. Writing in the privacy of my throne room makes them sore. But it’s not like I can just walk away; my legs are numb. “A Farewell to Legs?” Ugh! Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
we pierce iv 