Longwave - A meeting at the bottom: When the worst thing that can happen to you isn't the worst thing

Shit…so I was sitting down to write some analytical bullshit piece about this band that most of you have (unfortunately) never heard (of) and I was drinking this half-fucking warm can of really shitty beer while fumbling with my stereo CD player trying to get said groups new 5 song-er EP platter to spin its highly anticipated (by me…you don’t know them) sounds while inspiration – in all of its glorious, warm, and foul tasting state – settled into my belly and seeped into my bloodstream theretofore bringing the entire course of these things into a mellow, fuzzy-faced, stupor-bound focus which, in turn, exorcise the mental impurities of my dreary daily existence and would allow me to slowly evolve into preternaturally perceptive musical essayist that you folks have come to know and love when- lo and behold! - that damn can of unusually lousy and particularly piss warm beer tumbled from my hands right onto my stereo unit which absorbed every last ounce out of that damn can like some sort of two-days dry drunk (or a 17 year old who found someone fool enough to buy him a beer at an all ages show lurking in a dark corner chugging down his precious booty). Then – sparks, a loud POP, and half-minute of smoke followed by a circuit breaker kicking off and the room becoming pitch black.

With my eyes adjusted to the darkness I plucked the CD up out of the unit, wiped it dry on the leg of my jeans, and went to the circuit box and restored the power. The torn box of warm beer sat on the floor across the room mocking me so I went to kick the goddamn thing senseless – I mean I was gonna beat the fucking thing to bits – but I paused and realized that I was gonna need whatever lukewarm liquid was left in the damn thing. So I picked it up, went over to the computer desk, grabbed out another can, turned (wisely) away from my computer unit and popped the top as the machine fired up. A good swallow of beer and I was on my way once again. Time to give the people a smart, culturally persuasive piece on these cats from the band Longwave…and give it to them damn good!

"Write smart," I told myself.

Write smart? What the living hell is that? Had I really said that? If so, it’s time to hang this whole gig out to fucking dry. Write smart?! Ha! What an asshole! Who the hell did I think I was? I’m never sure.

I popped the new Longwave CD, which, by the way, was a bitch to get hold of (and I thought I rated with these people!) into my computer and sat back.

I remember back – damn near two years now – when I first heard Endsongs, Longwave’s debut disc. It was new to me, and damn near new to the world (I think the band had only been together eight or nine months at that time) and it totally fucking shook me. I’d had a few startling experiences at that point with new bands debuting themselves on disc, but nothing…nothing like this. I’d called friends up immediately, played them bits over the goddamn phone (which really seems to completely annoy people). But, I’d also reacted that way more than a few times in my sordid past, so I am sure the lunatic ravings of mine hardly had an effect on the friends I was howling at on the phone about this "in-fucking-credible new record…this new band called Longwave…New York…sound like a pop Television…or a focused Psychedelic Furs…or..or…or"

"Yeah, okay man, thanks. Make me a tape or something (this was before the art of CD burning you see), but I’ve got work to do man…"

"But you don’t understand…here, listen to this…the fucking guitar lead in is just dead on…"

"Hey man, I can’t, just leave me alone. I’m gonna get fired…"

"Here…here it is…listen…can you hear it? Is it too distorted…right here…listen…"

"Hey man, I can’t fucking listen. Now leave me the fuck alone. Don’t ever call here again asshole."

"But…but…but…"

The dial tones always seem to fade right into the music noise.

Endsongs was one of those records. But ‘those’ records always turn out either one way or another: they either flash and burn for a few days (and wind up embarrassingly hyped by a fool such as me), quickly fading as they fall from grace; or, they maintain a steady warming glow, a slow burning orange ember that never loses its heat. Experience reminds me that it’s damn near impossible to tell where such things will ultimately end up when I’m off on an irrationally exuberant tangent.

So I pushed and pushed and pushed this Longwave outfit on whoever would listen and pretty soon days of this hyperbole turned to weeks, weeks to months, and, well, you all know how the calendar goes. The point is though, that this was obviously becoming something more than my usual short-term love affair – the record, as we like to say in the business, had serious legs (okay, I haven’t heard anyone actually say that about a record – ever, but you get the idea so back off).

Endsongs, in fact, was the surprise record of that year 2000 season. It came on by storm and impressed damn near everyone who heard it as far as I can tell. It stood out against the prevailing winds of both popular rock and roll and the headier alternative sounds by the sheer virtue of its agile naïveté (not the best word for it because it was more defiant and mature than naïve would imply), it’s brilliant cursive guitar work, and its fascinating blur of early 80’s new wave romanticism, mid-80’s spirituality and bombast, 1990’s modernism, and New York City poetic (as far as rockroll might possibly evoke this sort of literary approach – which, who knows, it may not) sensibility.

But surprise records of two-years past do nothing for a mood spoiled by bad beer and a fried stereo unit today. Nostalgia in the rockroll racket only pays off when your standing still or you’ve given up, and I fear both. So I knobbed up the volume on this new smattering of Longwave songs and braced myself for the worst (a good critic knows that bands and/or records are like fond lovers – in the end, you just get disappointed or hurt – or both).

Chiming guitars lead an oncoming bass-line as "Tidal Wave" starts with a strain of Longwave familiarity. "I am everything you wanted / I am everything you wanted / I am everything you need" the vocals insist, as though probing my disposition. The song’s sound is a logical progression that neither disturbs nor disappoints; it’s comfortably Longwave and now I feel comfortable with my expectations.

"Exit" is propulsive and insistent, reaching out and grabbing you by the collars, putting its face right up to yours in its relentless amphetamine raving. It’s not aggressive, not intimidating, but rather explanatory and anxious, like someone who is in desperate need of help – almost pleading, but always jerked-up on adrenaline; like a mind moving and threefold realities speed.

Together, these first two songs portend a carrying on of the Longwave grand plan; a scheme based on comfortably intelligent songs played as though they were intricately wired machinery. It’s hard to believe that these songs are really as straightforward as they truly are. It’s called depth.

I’m at ease, happy even, that the music lives up to my sense of the band. I knock back the last of my beer and reach into the tattered box for another. I remember thinking that I ought to refrigerate the last couple…and then nothing. Nothing…

"Meet me at the Bottom" pulls everything that Longwave has done, on this and the debut disc, into a different light. Or rather it removes everything from the light and leaves only shadows. It is a dark, frightening tune – horrifying in fact; horrifying because of its abject resignation. ‘There is nothing any more’ it seems to be saying. "When they’ve got you, they’ve got you by the balls / and in this light you can’t see anything at all / and you know you can meet me at the bottom" the voice instructs. It is a voice that is not destined for the bottom, but one that is already there. A voice that knows you’re destined to join him. Drug addiction? Insanity? Suicidal? Or is it just the sudden realization that there is no real control over the world in which a voice exists? No place for it to have a chance to find itself? All of which feed from the same trough, but none as singularly disturbing as the singers tone of voice. That carries the true sound of hopelessness and disposed resignation. This is my fate; this I now accept.

It is stark, it is painful, it is a moment of cold that cannot even be warmed by the wonderful folksy "Next Plateau" which follows it.

The closing instrumental, "Ambien", attempts to sooth by turning the whole thing into a whimsical smiling ride on a carousel, "Look! Everything is ok!" the music declares lightly. "It’s ok to be here!" It rings out with guitars like gentle drops of rain just before the sun. But it changes nothing; it doesn’t even attempt to. This is it: the bottom. You have not escaped; it is your destiny. The song isn’t there to lull you into a false sense of comfort, even though it is comforting, but it’s there to let you know that perhaps the bottom is not all bad. That, in fact, it just might be the better fate for a thinking person considering how things are at the "top".

It is only an EP, I know, but the song cycle here is nothing short of absurd in its humble brilliance. I rather doubt that there was any intent for this collection to play out as sequentially operatic as it does, but that does not matter to me, it plays as it does – for whatever reasons - and it delivers like very little other music can these days. And when it’s done playing out its treacherous descent it ultimately serves to remind why acquiescence is the supreme horror of our times.

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