I have all sorts of conflicting feelings going on right now. It's Christmas. Whoopty-fucking-shit. I ma in Illinois and the love of my life is in Minnesota - not a very equally handed situation. I tried Roy Orbison, I tried Liz Phair, and I tried screwdrivers (the drink, not the tool). I've got the Religious Right in my ears and a good deal of alcohol in my belly. If there's a single feeling for being happy, sad, drunk, and proud at the same time, that's what I would describe myself as.
I'm happy that I'm in love. I'm sad that I'm not where I want to be. I'm sad because my friends are not where they want to be. I'm drunk because I've drank a lot of vodka and orange juice. I'm proud because my friends created one of the five best songs I've ever heard. I've been waiting fifteen minutes for this. One moment.
I still can't figure out the harmonies.
If you see Derek Porter or Mike Little (Johnny Chastain to the uninitiated), congratulate them on their achievement. "My Imaginary Friend" is a gospel rave-up concerning the nature of faith. As a song, it hits a home-run. There is a beautiful, instantly hummable melody throughout; make sure to pay extra attention to Porter's delivery of the line "as a stalagmite" (the narrator is on desolation row, lying on his bedroom floor deciding his future). The instrumentation is mixed well, each piece complementing the other with magnificent fluidity.
That's where the secrets of the song come to light. "My Imaginary Friend" has more layers than an onion. There's an old-time religion in the music which is sorely laking in today's soft-serve dispensation. Not too many people take the time to craft their work like the Religious Right does. I won't give the surprise away, but on multiple listens, subtleties become shining hallmarks.
Which brings me to my drunken point: "My Imaginary Friend" is a piece of art. It rounds every base of American songwriting. I can hear the Wilson brothers in those harmonies, as well as Simon and Garfunkel, as well as those shifty Brits Lennon and McCartney.
The subtleties I spoke of earlier are fucking orchestral. The motif is a dying ingredient, as the only example of a contemporary practitioner I can think of is Randy Newman. It is not essential to a memorable, or effective, song, but the motif makes the listening experience a whole lot more interesting. Porter and Little are playing with our understanding and expectations when they include this certain theme in their own composition. A melody can tell a story better than words some times.
Which is not a knock to the lyrics. They are fantastic: intelligent, alarming, effective, morose, and celebratory all at once. "My Imaginary Friend" tells a story that we all know, but does so with such originality that you'll swear you've never heard such a thing before. And when the ending comes around - watch the fuck out. Phil Spector would shit in his pants if he heard this. Every voice in the song, including ones we hadn't heard (think about that, granted you've listened to it), chimes in to give us a finale worthy of admiration. It gives me chills every time I hear it. Even when I'm not drunk (and that's a compliment I don't pay very idly).
So in a nutshell, I had a good holiday. I drank champagne, I ate artichoke dip (home-made, not that shit you get at AppleBees), I gave and received gifts, I played Wii, and I got laid. It was awesome. So here I am now, filling my new external hard-drive with music and drinking screwdrivers so I can wake up tomorrow...today at 6 o'clock and go to work at the Home Depot. Whoopty-fucking-shit. At least I'm taking steps toward my dreams. It's more I can say for some people.
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