The Seasonal Sea and Cake

The August sounds

Way back at the end of the last century, I had my first real apartment. I’d lived in other apartments before, but this was me and one other person in what I now recall as a massive two-bedroom in the Ukrainian Village in Chicago and I don’t even want to think about what it costs now compared to what we were paying. I was there from spring until fall. The roommate and I didn’t like each other. We were both teenagers and neither of us was ready for the roommate experience so things were pretty weird from the start. Most of why is sort of lost to time and it probably isn’t that interesting, anyways. But I still remember that time as especially chill. Chicago apartment buildings a lot of times have those really great porches that go up the back of the structure, providing a nice little slice of outdoor space that every city dweller needs in order to not go totally nuts. The apartment was crazy hot, so I spent a lot of time on that porch. I remember that was the summer I read Ask the Dust by John Fante and followed it up with What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Chandler. I had a fake ID, but the liquor store near me never asked to see it, so I’d buy a few bottles of the cheapest red wine they had and I’d chug that stuff like it was Gatorade, go to sleep and somehow never wake up feeling like absolute death. It was nice.

That was the summer I went from 17 to 18. I like to think my musical tastes had already started to evolve. I was still really into screamy punk stuff (Charles Bronson, The Locust, anything from San Diego), but I was snobby about it. I’d shed any hint of a pop punk past because I just felt like an adult couldn’t let people know they liked Op Ivy or Fifteen. I regret that now, but back then, when I was young and trying to impress people, I felt it necessary to make sure it seemed like my tastes were refined. I wanted to walk into Reckless Records and have the cool snobs behind the counter look at me and go Now that guy knows what’s up. That was basically all I cared about. And in order to do that, I started buying CDs I only had a hunch about, that I’d read about in indie mags like Chunklet or Magnet. That’s basically how I got into some of the bands that I obsess over to this day: Mogwai, Lambchop and Black Heart Procession are three of the names that come instantly to mind from that period. But the one name I was familiar with because they were local, was the Sea and Cake. And it was their locality that made me so nervous to check them out. I saw the people that liked them in the wild, and those people were cool. They were the really super indie people, the ones that bartended at places like Lounge Ax or Rainbo or who made silkscreen posters for shows at the Empty Bottle or Fireside. They were the kind of people that made me feel like I was a little kid trying to play with the grown-ups. So I figured Sea and Cake was this super intense listening experience that you had to get. It would challenge you and if you didn’t understand it, then, well, you were dumb.

I avoided them until they were just there. A song drifting out of a neighbor’s window. A cool neighbor. I’d seen them before, but they were some sort of artist, a 20-something. I think it was at a Joan of Arc show. They seemed to know Tim Kinsella. That made me slightly intimidated so I tried to avoid them at all costs until I had to ask, “Hey man, what’s that you’re listening to?” I immediately thought I messed up, acting like I didn’t know something. I thought I was going to get one of those “Uhhh, you don’t know this?” answers, but the neighbor, who was drinking a beer and reading a book I’d already read smiled and said it was the Sea and Cake.

And it was nothing like I imagined. It was warm and sunny indie rock with the slightest touch of West Coast jazz chill. In my teenage mind, the closes approximation I could make was Yo La Tengo, and even all these years later I still think that isn’t a terrible comparison when trying to sell somebody on the band. I ran out the next day and bought a copy of The Biz, the band’s 1995 album, and they’ve been an official band of my summers ever since.

The band’s catalog runs pretty deep, with almost a dozen LPs since the mid-1990s, all suitable for sunny days or even grey ones when there’s a little drizzle. But then when you start looking past the band and dig into the solo output of the band, it goes even deeper, specifically the stuff by Sam Prekop and Archer Prewitt. Perfect jazzified pop for summertime. I’d even say the latest record, Sons Of, by Prekop and the band’s percussionist, John McEntire, has a nice bleepy bloop ambient vibe for morning walks when you’re getting your head straight.

I have very specific tastes during certain times of the year. I joke a lot about how come the end of August, I start listening to “The Summer Ends” by American Football almost hourly. I can listen to I can Hear the Heart Beating as One by YLT all year, but I skip “Autumn Sweater” unless it’s actually cold outside and I need an extra layer. I’m a real big fan of seasonal listening in general. Neil Young is always good, but he’s especially great in the summertime, whereas Mariss Nadler or John Fahey sound nicer when it’s cold out. I can listen to Charlie Parker any time of the year, but never will I sit through his version of “Summertime” unless it’s June, July or August. Can you honestly listen “That Summer Feeling” by Jonathan Richman in October or January? If so, that’s weird, man. For me, Sea and Cake work as long as it’s warm or the sun is shining, but they just hit different during the eighth month of the year for me, likely because that’s when I first heard them and that feeling of having just turned 18 and being officially free always comes back when I hear them.