Wherever you go, home goes with you: Real Estate

          It’s twenty minutes to show time and I am a block away from the club when my phone starts ringing with an unknown number. Martin Courtney is on the other line,

“Are you there yet? No? Good. Tell then you’re on Bleekers’s list. I totally forgot to tell them to put you on and I’m not there yet.”

           When I arrive at Webster Hall there is a crowd of people outside. Technically the show is to promote their cover story in Fader magazine, and it’s already a zoo. Brooklynites, indie rock fans, and the like stand in line, jackets on for the first time in the season to fight the chill in the early fall air. When I get to the bouncer his way of checking that I am really who I say I am is to lean close to me and whisper conspiratorially.

“Ok, if you’re on the list, which band are you here to see?”

           When I answer Real Estate he grins “It’s a secret show…” he says, looking more like an excited kid than an intimidating bouncer. I’ve never seen security detail this excited for a small rock performance. I’ve also never had a band member so concerned that we would get into the show. It’s this kind of two way enthusiasm that is keeping the band’s momentum rolling from their first album, a dreamy decidedly lo-fi affair, to their second, a more polished but deeply honest album. Once when we get inside the smaller downstairs room “The Studio” as it’s known is almost packed wall to wall. It’s pretty clear that the secret is out.

          Real Estate got its start in the groomed gardens and immaculate landscapes of suburban New Jersey. In the kind of environment that might inspire scorn in a talented musician Real Estate found it’s earliest inspiration. The boys, Martin Courtney, Alex Bleeker, and Matt Mondanile had been long time friends, growing up together and spending lazy summers playing music in each other’s homes. When college was over and the boys returned home, it seemed second nature to play with one another again. The result was the freshman self-titled album released on Woodsist in 2009. Their new album, Days, released this October through their new label Domino, retains all of the things that made the first album catch notice from the likes of Pitchfork and Popmatters. Well-crafted melodies that catch you with their elegant simplicity, paired with sparkling guitar riffs that evoke Johnny Marr from The Smiths craft the “beachy” vibe that the band is known for. The bass line provides the kind of groove that can even get jaded New York scenesters to dance.

          When Real Estate takes the stage it’s clear that their recording technique is not the only thing that has evolved from this tour to the last. While Courtney previously hid behind his shoulder length hair as he played he now seems almost comfortable on stage. Almost. The band is tight technically and the years of playing with one another show in their intuitive grasp of each others playing styles. The addition of Jonah Mauer on synth adds depth to the overall sound.

          After the show the good vibes spill over backstage. The room is cramped and smoky. A far cry from the sullen indie rock stereotype, everyone is friendly and upbeat. Throughout my conversation with Martin well-wishers and old friends show up. This is a hometown band that never lost their connection to where they came from, despite a move from the suburbs to Brooklyn. A lot of things are changing for Real Estate. A few weeks after this show their single “It’s Real” was featured on iTunes, a nice nod; their album too has garnered positive reviews. Their tour to support the album has just begun and though it will take them far out of New Jersey you can be sure that the state will in some ways travel with them. At the end of the day the title of their single is true of the whole band themselves. It is what it is; it’s real.

My Regina (I)

i.
Mornings are feral.
One sock half on, every hair growing in a different direction
I drag myself out of the den. You are up up up.
I’m making eggs and quinoa
and
do you want any?
and I tell her
baby
please
I don’t want no hippie food,
I just want rye toast, black coffee.
(then I cringe cause it sounds rough outside of my own head.
homegirl is just trying to make me eat breakfast
and don’t I have half a kind word for her this early?)
so I try to make you laugh
bring up about last night
when Jefferino told us rapid fire
that quinoa was only $1.50 a pound
recommended we make a big bowl every week
and that it was, in fact,
the mothergrain…yo.
you tell me
Hubert likes quinoa more than rice.
I grind the coffee.
Hubert also made a tattoo gun
out of a pencil sharpener
and got Rex to carve
“Welcome Theives”
in Russian
on his ass.


ii.
See I was at that party
and so was she.
We hadn’t met yet,
didn’t meet that night.
Separated by the oceanic divide
of Hubert’s new tattoo.
Our mutual fear of being presented
with the bloody horror
(the gun didn’t work so hot)
kept us on opposite sides of the house
and so we never met.


iii.
They look like curly little tails in the eggs,
and though they seem kind of cute.
I still just want rye toast, black coffee.


iv.
Stop pacing, and if you’re looking for the radio, it’s busted
The stove’s heat melts the patterns on the pane,
it refreezes into slashes across the glass.
how’d it…
oh it just fuzzed and popped and stopped.
A large piece of mirror stands in the corner
reflecting a sliver of the scene.
And I cannot remember
when the glass monster was transmuted
by lack of time or indecision
from art supply to home décor,
but I have nearly cut my foot open on it twice already.


v.
–I remember
how we did eventually meet.
All five of us were moving into the slanted house together.
You and I were the only ones who showed up early to sign the lease.
You opened the pickup door and the ice cracked like a pistol shot
get in, it’s freezing.


vi.
The radio’s bowels are all over the coffee table.
I am searching for a loose wire.
but I really am desperate to fix the thing.
After I drop you off at the hospital
I will be home, alone, before work,
feeling useless as all hell.
I’ll want the news
and the paper ain’t gonna sate me.
I want to lose myself in those disembodied voices,
let their words become my thoughts,
let the waves bounce through my brains.
My toast pops up, it’s burnt.


vii.
-I am too wide awake




Written in 2009, the first part of this seven part poem appeared in the magazine Beatniks and Cowboys in their Summer 2011 issue

You need to have a plan to deal with terror

When Ben was afraid at night he'd sleep on the floor of his closet to fill the void there. When he crawled out in the morning his face was dimpled from laying his cheek on the carpet. His legs would wobble with pins and needles since he had to bend his knees at an odd angle under the winter coats just to fit. Considering the kind of man he became I think it's funny that as a child he was desperate to become his own monster.

Clara's First Love

Billy was born so sinister he had two left hands. His right canine was pocked by cavities and his eyes were the color of rust. When he sang it sounded like a train whistle and his only cologne was gin. He was born in a barn and he never left. He could whistle up a wind and draw down the moon and take the sting from a bee bite. He was my first love and I was his last. The train came and took him. Took him whole by force.

Brief Elegy for Delia Derbyshire

Ode to my darling Delia D
How the robots dream of thee
A pale mathematical saint
And in the days I cannot hide
The architecture you derived
Does conspire to save me

Oh my darling Delia D
Writ in water robot elegies
Loops of sound eternal
Wobulate the dulcet tones
Crafting in your Delian mode
Strange and elegant sonic bones




Who is Delia?