By the time you read this, we might be headed into another week of shifting rains drowning the recent glow of sunshine in clouds and downpours. Fine by me; I’ve always been the type to comment on the weather rather than complain about it. Credit that to spending most of my life in places where unpredictable, discrete events from the sky usually keep things interesting without messing up the general vibe of the local climate. We have such an interesting and damp stasis around here, it has — for me anyway — the paradoxical effect of wanting to read about actual extremes in the physical world and human behavior, the volatile scroll of history, and the stories about places where one really shouldn’t go. But it doesn’t all have to be books about the frozen death trips trying to find the Northwest Passage or the slow desiccation of crossing deserts cursed by mirages and finicky oases. Sometimes I want to engage with an abstract expression of the ambience of the impossible lands without the human drama. And few albums reach that feeling like Victorialand, the 1986 record by Scotland’s Cocteau Twins, a concept album of sorts inspired by an outsider’s impression of Antarctica. Songs like “Feet Like Fins” and the one this column is named after have a quality you will not find anywhere else, music that meshes between indecipherable vocals and highly affected guitar that speaks in a language as coherent as the wild grace of life itself pumping through the part of existence that renders the myopic human experience into the great All, and hints at the unspeakable language of God. This isn’t an album review, nor even a recommendation, but a suggestion that there are still ways to fill the gaps and depressions with the rare ethereal expression that has lasting substance — a cloud you can step onto and float away for as long as you choose to let the grooves spin.
Sweet dreams and fine travels.
Thursday
Let January slip away with some vocal jazz courtesy of the Claire Bent Quintet. I’ve always enjoyed Ms. Bent’s versatile voice and her choice of a top backing band, which, last I checked (forgive me if I’m wrong) includes her dad Jim on drums. He once helped me with some upholstery for my guitar pedal case for free, which was a lovely gesture to a stranger. Free also happens to be the door price tonight at the Basement, where the music is happening sometime after 7:30 p.m.
Friday
Master violinist Andrew Finn Magill has taken the time he lived and played in Brazil and created Canto, Violino!, a trio which slithers and pulses between the funnels of choro music, the early fusion ancestor of samba, jazz, and bossa nova. The rest of the group are world class musicians, with Brazilian percussionist Clarice Cast and guitarist Edhino Gerber. If the shot at hearing unique and virtuosic tunes isn’t thrilling enough, consider the venue, the Arcata Playhouse. I was lucky enough to catch a very sold-out gig there last weekend, and the place is just perfect, with the wooden frame and red drapes creating a warm sounding space that feels at once intimate and vast. A perfect venue, really, especially for this sort of thing. Music starts at 7 p.m., and tickets run $20 general, $18 for members.
Saturday
Being raised by hippies who met in a cult — not the horrible kind, but still — I have generally avoided getting too invested in pagan holidays and astrology in favor of my own more traditional religious practices that I won’t elaborate on here for a variety of reasons, one of which is a desire to not be a public hypocrite about the temple of devotion. Consequently, I had to be informed by the mysterious La Neutra that tonight is Imbolc, the Gaelic holiday which either celebrates the beginning of the spring, or the time right between the more modern notion of winter solstice and spring equinox. Regardless, the masked and be-dolled curator of sound will be putting on a sound event at Culture Shrooms tonight at 8 p.m. called Mixtape March of the Trolls, Imbolc Dance Exorcism. It should be as weird, fun and wild as its earlier iteration at the Ocean Grove late last year, except tonight’s event is free. Enjoy.
Sunday
The Eureka Women’s Club is hosting a fundraiser for our fabulous Eureka Symphony today at 3 p.m. ($30). The group is made up of local stars, with conductor (and former brilliant and suffering remedial music teacher of the half-cocked punk dipshit writing these words) Carol Jacobson on cello, local piano whizz John Chernoff and Eureka Symphony concertmaster Terrie Baune on violin. Expect some deep cuts by Beethoven and Brahms played exceptionally well, and remember that your ducats go to the excellent cause of keeping our beloved local symphony alive.
Monday and Tuesday
There’s no helping it, we’re still in winter here in Humboldt, no matter whose calendar you are looking at, so we are going to have some hibernation time. These two are such evenings, apart from ongoing gigs which I have flogged before often. So consider this a time to chase the ghosts of previous flames in the hearth of your dreams and memories.
Wednesday
Steve Poltz is a unique case study of the type of musician who found a way to forge a livelihood with his art right before the industry cratered into the rare mega-wealth and mass poverty model that is currently destroying the soul of American music. Coming up from the SoCal indie music scene of the early ’90s, he linked up with fellow singer-songwriter Jewel to co-write some of her more massive hits in that last decade of record deals, MTV and oddballs in the arena spotlights. Since then, he has developed a career as a mainly acoustic artist, inviting a certain joy and intimacy with his audience that relies on a casual but earnest stage presence coupled with his considerable songwriting talent. In short, the man has a charmed life as far as touring musicians go, and tonight at 7:30 p.m. will be playing at the Old Steeple, which, as is often a running theme in this column, is about as perfect a venue as they come for his craft. If this sounds like your thing, grab a $25 ticket online and eat the minor surcharge because this will likely be a popular one.
Collin Yeo (he/him) knows that those in power could rename the whole of the world, each and every part to fit their vision, and create nothing of lasting meaning whatsoever in the process.
This article appears in Enter the Papaya Lounge.