“It’s a concept album about organ harvesting colonies on the Moon…”
He calls the song by the wrong name. I’ve heard him do this before. “This is called Lucifer Rising,” he says tonight, opening the set with it. “Scorpio Rising,” I think to myself as he plays the first cord, but even though I’m front row, and he would hear me if I corrected him, I don’t say it. That would be an asshole move.
Not that I blame him. There are two of them on the album, songs with “rising” in the name. Scorpio Rising has the Bobby Beausoleil reference in it, even though the film with Bobby in it is called “Lucifer Rising.” Anyone would get confused. Especially when you wrote and performed the damn thing a decade ago.
Tonight I’m here for the record release party of John Vanderslice’s new album, The Cedars. Just like I have been at every single one of his shows in SF over the past decade. But when he’s talking about merch, he tells us that if we buy the digital version of the album, which comes with a custom paper map of the real physical place the album is named after, we’ll get a download code not just for The Cedars, but also a bunch of other things, Moon Colony Bloodbath among them.
I already have The Cedars at home on vinyl, I preordered it (of course), and yes, it came with a download code. But Moon Colony Bloodbath is one of my favorite albums ever. It is maybe even my “desert island” record, which is ironic, I guess, given its subject matter. Technically, it’s a split 12", an industry way of saying “it’s too short to be an LP, but it isn’t quite an EP either… .” I think. It’s 6 songs, 3 by John Vanderslice (“JV”), and 3 by John Darnielle (“JD”) of the Mountain Goats.
When it was released in 2009, Moon Colony Bloodbath was available for sale *only* on vinyl, in a limited pressing of *only* 1,000 copies, sold *only* at Gone Primitive tour shows, and has never been released in any digital format ever. So if you want to hear it, you have to have seen the tour (which I did), bought a copy before they sold out (which I did), or listen to it on YouTube (which I do, because it’s not like I can carry around a record player on my morning commute). But I want a good digital version, one that captures all the nuance of the record. Plus, I believe in paying for the art of people I respect and admire.
So after the show, I gather up all my courage and head over to the merch table. Courage is required because JV is at the merch table signing records. I’m not like most people. I don’t want the autograph, I don’t want a selfie. I want to hear you play music, up close if possible, but engaging with people who’ve provided a soundtrack to the emotional ups and downs of my life is incredibly stressful for me. I can’t risk losing the music.
Because when I listen to Moon Colony Bloodbath, I remember how I felt the first time I heard it at the Music Hall for the Society of Ethical Culture a decade ago. How JV talked about eating mangos backstage, and how quiet the room got when JD played Un Rêve Plus Long Que la Nuit. How uncomfortable the seats were, and how I shooshed my boyfriend when I noticed the man taping the show sitting right in front of us. How I pressed that record against my red corduroy coat as we stepped back out onto Central Park West. This album is important to me.
So I work up the courage and get in line for the merch table. I hand over $20, and JV asks for the spelling of my name. This is my chance. “I’m especially excited about Moon Colony Bloodbath,” I say. “Because it’s nowhere, right?!” he responds as he scribbles my name. “Well, I have the vinyl, but I’m afraid to play it.” This is true: I’m “saving it.” And JV looks me in the eye, as he hands me the folded map, and says “Well, be afraid no more.”
I shake his hand, thank him, and tell him how nice it is to meet him. It’s a little bit dorky, and a little bit awkward, but I’m not embarrassed because it’s all genuine emotion. My hands are shaking as I step out on Fell Street, so I light a smoke before calling a cab. And clutch my new map closer to my coat.
