album review: Swim

That time of year. My mind is bursting at the seams. The unrestrained outpouring of thought I attribute to the sweet summer and it's warmth has become a cautious, frigid hibernation. While I am not so overflowing, I can feel my mind still all aflutter. But what are these emotions keeping me awake at night? Where do my thoughts drift when they are content in wandering to where they please? To love, I suppose. To the undying compassion I have for... compassion. The infatuation I have with infatuation, so silly as to blind my own better knowledge. Every morning I am snapped awake by a burning flame somewhere inside my head. I cannot focus onto it and must let it run through my mind, igniting impulses of wondering. Distracting myself from the simple act of getting out of bed.

Falling down the stairs or pouring myself into a cup of coffee are the monstrous obstacles of the everyday which prohibit me from settling inside myself to possible answers. To possible peace or an unrealistic "resolution". I know that I will never be content, and that is the only way to ensure growth.

On a slow morning at work I find that I can come a little bit to terms with inklings I have of putting a thought into words. I do not take this opportunity for granted. Nor do I dismiss the obvious turn my storytelling has taken into introspective, ambiguous prose. This is me letting myself think out loud. Onto my computer screen. Sometimes typing is easier than writing. As a simple soundtrack to my composing, I have chosen Caribou's Swim.

My discovery of Caribou was strange. A couple years ago they were headlining a tour with The Russian Futurists who I'd recently fallen in love with. In preparation for their show at the Magic Stick I listened to Caribou's then-current album, The Milk of Human Kindness, though I didn't really absorb any of it. I did leave it on repeat as my friends and I left for Detroit and at the time was annoyed when they accidentally became my number one artist on Audioscrobbler. We waited near the stage in hopes that Matthew Hart would appear soon, but were instead greeted by the members of Caribou and a declaration that Matt had been held at the United States border. In such a state of dismay, I was completely unprepared for the performance that unfolded before me. Dejected, we moved to the back of the room in the middle of the set and may have even left early. Yet, several months later I gave Caribou a proper listen and put the unfortunate show behind me in favor of a new favorite band.

Over the years Caribou has kept a frequent rotation on my stereo, and I'm sure their newest effort will be on my "Best of 2010" list. As they were becoming a well-known artist in my library, I worked my way backward through their catalog. Dan Snaith's early works are metallic and specific; experiments in programming. As Caribou has grown musically, it feels as if life has sprung from an unfeeling machine. Now organic, it wields a sentient awareness of the listener and humbly replies with an evolved collection of musical thought. This morning, Swim has been an excellent inspiration. Pleasing electronic rhythms and melodies that keep my fingers typing and my mind turning. Their approach involves varied, repeating phrases. Vocals serve as another instrument, and as the song drifts along it can be difficult to not presume when the next change will come and whether it will be minimal or explosive. Similar to my own writing process, sometimes I am simply stringing words together to form a story and the next moment I am bursting with an observation, a discovery of my own growth. It is too difficult to let that moment go and not put it into writing. I'm beginning to believe that the warmth of summer can be found even in the artificial, dry heat of December, and maybe January, February and everything afterward to come.