Joe Wong “Nite Creatures”

Once in a while I feel like the best approach to an album is to put myself in the cinematic flow of the feelings I get as it takes me along—it’s usually a record I like, as I do this one. It works best when I get the sensation that I’m watching something—not necessarily a movie or anything narrative, but not abstract either. It’s often my most enjoyable version of a journey—neither weighed down by dramatic convention nor floating on an unhinged dreamscape—but something in-between—maybe a combination of memory and discovery. At any rate, it’s more fun than trying to isolate instruments or nail down influences. I can make out the lyrics, here, but there’s no lyric sheet included, which is sometimes good because the lazy approach is to isolate and analyze text. But first… this is a 2020 release—the Decca label looks like an old one, but the vinyl is heavy-duty, the way the kids like it. The cover is nice—a double exposure of either Joe Wong and Joe Wong, or Joe Wong and Crispin Glover (though, that would make no sense, but such is the nature of double exposures). Joe Wong and Mary Timony are credited with most of the sound—along with a few guest artists, and some orchestra. If I’m going to use one term for the music, I’d say psychedelic pop. Side 1 ends with a lock-groove. I wish Side 2 did, as well—in fact I wish all sides of all records ended in lock-grooves, seeing how I don’t have an automatic return turntable.

Okay, I guess I’m in Los Angeles, a town—whenever I visit—that I fall in and out of love with, within a week’s time—a microcosm of my relationships. It’s over. What a good place to start. I’ve reached absolute bottom, and now I’m walking. Well, that’s what one does in L.A.—not drive, that’s a myth—which is good because whenever I’m driving in a dream it’s all about not being able to hold a tight corner at high speeds. I’m walking along the boardwalk. Is there a boardwalk somewhere? Maybe I’m not in L.A. after all—never did make it to the beach. I come to a church, but it’s an old one, like a mission—not one of those new, drive-in ones. I either begin to pray or pretend to pray—I’m not sure—but then it occurs to me that it doesn’t make any difference. Did you ever dream in church? Did you ever kiss someone in a church? And why am I dressed in a cowboy costume? I was named after Randolph Scott, who looked comfortable in cowboy gear but miserable in a suit. I stop at a busy and hip pizza place, now, on a street populated with hustlers and insane dreamers—but I’m not eating—I’m taking in smells, perfumes, flowers, pizza—I can live on the wafting odors—which connect directly to the part of my brain that resides in heaven. Past midnight, now—adventure. I’m in a car, as a passenger—it’s an open convertible. We’re going somewhere—a surprise—there’s fear and anticipation. Then… the lock-groove of death.

The next morning, I’m walking along the beach. Finally made it to the beach! Something (could it merely be a good night’s sleep?) has made me feel invincible! I can do anything I want to do. Well, short of surfing—but I like watching the surfers—for once they’re not annoying, but beautiful. Well… I guess I’m performing my own version of riding the waves. Yeah, but it couldn’t last. Now I’m stranded in the haunted hills, and someone lent me some shitty sunglasses that allow me to see every single thing that happened here in the near and distant past. I’m a passenger once more, this time in an old VW bus, taking the hilly curves way too fast—though maybe we’re actually gliding just above the road. How’d I end up with these cats who are each dressed in a different satin rainbow color? Fortunately, they let me out at my girlfriend’s house (to be clear, this is a woman I’ve never met—yet she seems to know everything about me). She is absolutely everyone I’ve ever known condensed into a B-movie actress. As the sun is setting, now (in the east, for some weird psycho-geographic reason), I’m walking in slow-motion through lovely, old Union Station, lit, tonight, exclusively with candles. The huge, antique train is waiting for me, steaming and shaking, like a giant horse, and I pretty much am certain that once I get on it, all of this will be lost. Except for, you know—not the memories—but a single pearl—that they tell me… if you roll it ’round a roulette wheel it will never land. That’s all, folks! Thanks, Joe Wong, for the dreamy trip, and the trippy dreams. Keep ’em coming.

8.11.23