It’s Christmas Eve and I wake up to my phone alarm at 8:20 that I never turned off, and in fact probably (?) drunkenly turned on. Quickly, I panic at the thought of going to work today. Then I remember I don’t need to be there until 7:30 tonight. I turn it off and roll over only to fall asleep for another forty minutes. Creaking from our (finally!) working radiators and the wind getting through the cracks of my windows, my room is a mix of familiar sounds. Immediately the craving to re-watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, that has been tempting me quietly for weeks, seems like the only morning activity. Then I see the book I purchased yesterday, Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life. I finish the intro and first chapter, which I had glossed over in Kramer Books yesterday. Steve Almond has this life theory that I know we all identify with, the Drooling Fanatic. I bought the book not only because he’s funny and you can tell he likes the reader, but Aimee Mann is quoted on the front. I turn it over and see a longer quote from her and another from Dan Bern. A man I know a lot about from never hearing his music. Almond’s writing is simple. He uses surprising language that will, and I think already has, gotten me out of my book rut. I haven’t read someone who genuinely loves music like this since Chuck Klosterman’s 2005 Killing Yourself To Live: 85% A True Story (that I also stumbled upon accidentally.) When you find music writing like this it makes you fall in love with music all over again.

judas

Last night I’m pretty sure I had an epiphany about Bob Dylan. His only listen-able album for me is Live, 1966 The Royal Albert Hall Concert [Disc 2] with Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat, One Too Many Mornings, Ballad of a Thin Man and the infamous yelling of an English crowd member JUDAS (and Dylan’s retort of ….I don’t believe you….you’re a LIAR!!) It made me think, hmm well the Beatles were building their army in America at this very time and here was the poet, yet completely forgotten rock guitar god (and Google-able guitarist Robbie Robertson) back across the pond not smiling for the camera, smoking with twisted hands and fingernails, stirring the proverbial pot (and giving it out to the Beatles), singing tormented lyrics about the geek at the circus and one of the greatest love songs, and a ranking favorite (Pill-Box). I am convinced it’s about Edie Sedgwick. (I didn’t realize he had a love ‘affair’ with her until I endured Factory Girl. I use the word endured here because Hayden Christensen, for reasons misunderstood, was recruited to play Bob Dylan.) It is one of the greatest Live records I know and every time I listen to it, hits and all, it makes me realize the musical relationship between America and England in the 60s, and how complicated it was. Epiphany long over due, the Bob Dylan story in my life has now come full circle and I feel like I can move on without ever leaving him behind.

The best part about being alone on days like Christmas Eve and Christmas is that you get to be alone. No one is around. The train isn’t crowded, the streets are nothing but cold and you can play music at a louder than acceptable volume at 9am on Saturdays. With all the Best Of… lists squirming through my head lately, and the full album listens I’ve been devoting my brain to, I revert to my 2009 favorite album of the year (disclaimer, this has legit surprised more people than intrigued them) the Dirty Projectors’ Bitte Orca. A record that I listened to so much that I couldn’t for a while. But now when I hear it, I’m transported to winter of last year. Officially it’s become one of those records that can put you in a past place just from the opening chords.

there's something about his greasy hair...

At a 9am full volume I crack open one of the greatest Christmas presents I’ve ever gotten, all the way from London, the White Stripes photo book. (Thank you Morgan.) It is hardly a chronicle as it’s a presentation of art. Huge fold out newspaper sized photos, creased hardly down the middle, double sided. I figured the only proper way to display them would to put them between glass and hang them in a loft or hallway. I read the fine print and race to search about this Detroit garage rock band that Jack White played guitar for before him and Meg crafted the White Stripes: the Go. Doing exactly what I wanted to avoid all day until work, I am staring into a computer screen. Throwing myself into musical obsessions and loud rock earlier than planned. I’m afraid, quite frankly I know, it will lead to the filth in my apartment to build up and the choice to avoid human contact for the rest of the day.

As much as I want to turn on 24 hours of A Christmas Story, sweep the floor, and cook the spinach and mushrooms that I know if I don’t eat before lunch tomorrow will be spoiled, I can’t help but sit in my pajamas and reorganize my music library for the umpteenth time. My Christmas present to you, this new band: Tame Impala. Hailing from Australia, and the suggestions of Sokol and a co-worker playing them loudly in our empty office yesterday, I can finally remember their name after them blatantly popping up everywhere. What’s to follow? My favorite records of the year? Maybe. Until then, here’s a friend’s who has it planned and thought out more than I could try to do right now.