The Ditty Bops

When listening to most kinds of music, I'm tempted (maybe tempted isn't the right word, since this is more of a reflex) to bathe myself in not only the particulars of the music (and perhaps the lyrics) but also in the memories that have attached themselves to it.

What was I doing when I first heard this record? Who was I with? Was I happy?

Ah, but nostalgia takes many forms. I've been talking about musical nostalgia here, but there's also nostalgia of place. Everybody know s about that one. A room that reminds you of what your bedroom looked like when you were a little kid....the park where you played baseball after school...the college classroom where you met your future spouse.

Memory's a funny thing though, as all of these nostalgia fragments refuse to be pigeonholed. You listen to a piece of music and it reminds you of a place...which has its own set of remembrances. Drive by an old girlfriend's house and the melody of 'your' song will float back into your head.

Over the past month or so, I've been heavily involved in two things: 1) packing and moving my family to a new house and 2) listening to The Ditty Bops. Activity #1 is at least partially responsible for activity #2. See, all but a handful of my CD's have been tucked away in boxes, leaving me with about a dozen discs.

During all of this upheaval, a couple of unexpected things happened. The first was the unsettling emergence of all sorts of memories related to our 'old' house. As I walked around the mostly empty rooms, the mental postcards began to pile up: the wedding in the living room, news of a homeless relative, woodworking projects with my dad. On and on it went. The echoes bouncing off the walls were not just acoustic.

The second unexpected item? That I was able to use The Ditty Bops as an oasis and refuge. I mean, this almost never happens to me. When my brain is spouting off these kind of mental sparks, the 'remedy' is usually time. Instead, I was able to lose myself in the odd stories, sideways harmonies and creative instrumental structures.

At first it was the voices that drew me in. Amanda Barrett and Abby DeWald remind me of The Roches. Maybe with slightly less harmonic weirdness. Both of their voices also remind me of the great and underappreciated Deborah Holland. Mix in a little of Suzanne Vega's understated sexiness and, well, there's somethin' going on here.

As if the disturbingly beautiful vocals weren't enough, the lyrics also cast their spell. The opening "Walk or Ride" (a song that may or may not be about making the right choices while living this life) starts off innocently enough:

With just one kiss you could change the world
It might not be much better but it certainly wouldn't hurt

You can say that the third verse gets a little weird with:

I saw an educated girl give her hair a twirl
And contemplate the meaning of a man with just one arm

You can also say things turn a little David Lynchian in the final verse:

You might find the meaning of life in the barrel of a rifle
If it's pointed at a bird or it's pointed at your head

The music itself ranges from fairly simple girls-with-acoustic guitars to roaring 20's shuffles ("Sister Kate"). A whole pile of extra instruments make appearances including piano, mandolin, banjo, ukulele, dulcimer, violin and trombone.

This music is exactly the kind of thing I like to refer to when I hear complaints about how there's "nothing good out there". This stuff is beyond good, and it borders on criminal that The Ditty Bops have not caught on yet.

Now, of course, I won't be able to listen to The Ditty Bops without thinking of those few bittersweet weeks of old house memories. But that's OK. Music can serve many functions. Helping people through some tough times is certainly a noble enough cause.

(First posted on Mark Is Cranky)

Article Author: Mark Saleski

Mark Saleski is a writer and music obsessive based out of the Monadnock region of New Hampshire. He has contributed to Jazz.com and also writes reviews for Blogcritics.org. He produces the weekly feature The Friday Morning Listen. …

Visit Mark Saleski's author page — Mark Saleski's Blog