poetry in an empty coke can

Well dear Coke Can Poets, where to begin. We’ve been putting off this post for some time, as it pains the heart to dwell too long. But rather than ghost on you, we feel that some closure is in order. Cliché as it may be, change is a part of life—and even healthy in order to grow and create space for other enticing new opportunities. So without further ado, we’d like to formally announce that Coke Can Poetry is hanging up its proverbial hat in 2017. Some shrewd readers may have noticed the regularity of posts had dwindled this past year, as priorities shifted and attentions necessarily diverted elsewhere.

CCP was conceived when the site founder, Jenn Woodard (that’s me, penning this post and currently breaking the fourth the wall) relocated to the District and wanted to experience all that the DC music scene had to offer. What started out as a personal passion project evolved into something greater through the support of platforms like Hype Machine—enabling CCP to interact with a number of artists, promote the wondrous DC concert circuit, and cultivate some great friendships with other likeminded musos.

Over the years, we’ve received many a compliment on the name Poetry In An Empty Coke Can, which yes while quite long—is poetic in itself. I’ve (okay, dropping the royal plural pronoun now) never outwardly stated the meaning through this forum, though I did try to explain it an interview with WFAsounds. It derives from Guillemots “Made-Up Lovesong #43,” a simple Britpop song I’ve always loved for the underlying sentiment.

While the track is about the ineffable feeling of joy one experiences while falling in love—it also encapsulates the euphoria that comes from connecting to a song that speaks to you. So in essence, that was always the aim of CCP—to share music that inspired our protean team of contributors and hope that it would inspire others in turn. It was always more about the music than the words, though we did try to do the songs justice in the best way we knew how.

This is not quite a valediction from music journalism altogether, but rather a segue into another chapter. Moving forward I will be writing for SoundChips, a fantastic, forward-thinking platform for music discovery which comprises a much greater variety of genres than ever covered on CCP. In fact, I’ve already begun contributing to the site, and you can find the first post I wrote for them here. If you’re interesting in having a track featured on SoundChips, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me there at jenn@soundchips.co. They also have a newsletter coming out you should probably get hip to.

Thanks to everyone for listening and following along in our coke can poet pursuit. I cannot thank you enough for your support—the best things really do come from nowhere, and I’m grateful that you cared.

Though released in the summer of 2002 and discovered while getting accustomed with the discomfort of adolescence in Canada, Interpol’s inaugural Turn on the Bright Lights will always be inextricably linked in my mind with two things: winter and New York.

From the opening chords of the LP appetizer “Untitled” to the doleful refrains that close out “Leif Erickson”—the whole album’s defining sound shimmers under the cool detached vocals of Paul Banks and Daniel Kessler’s angular guitar strokes–their tone straddling the line between crisp and harsh, balanced against the ebullience of Carlos Dengler’s bass. The whole rhythm section so strongly grounds the understated groove of the record that when it drops out during a few notable moments (the intro on “The New” for example), you can’t help but lean in closer, only to have the warmth of the band’s full sound return to swaddle you.

For all the derision aimed at Banks’ lyrics (fair) and the similarity to Joy Division ‘s Ian Curtis in his warbled delivery, it’s the quality and stylistic consistency of Interpol’s sound that makes the album still resonate so palpably fifteen years later. Be it the opening riff of “Obstacle 1,” the hopeful restraint of “NYC,” or even the sinister whispers underneath the knife-edge creepiness of “Roland,” each component and passage fits together with the same painful detachment that underpins the album.

It’s no coincidence that I’m pressed to look back on this record tonight as New York braces itself for Winter Storm Stella, evoking the title of the eighth track and fan favorite of the compilation. As I sit here overlooking the traffic of 2nd Avenue trickle to a slow drip in anticipation of the impending snowfall, I can’t help but look back on the years since this seminal album cemented itself as a permanent part of my rotation.

Raised in a snowy Canadian town on a constant glut of awareness and appreciation for the city (my mother landed in Queens after fleeing Iran), coupled with the post-9/11 zeitgeist in those years that refracted New York anywhere it could, it’s really no wonder I make the association. Maybe this album was really written by and for turn-of-the-century New Yorkers, taking bumps off their keys somewhere in the stairwell of a Brooklyn walk-up, but frankly, if this stuff doesn’t remind you of the time and place where you started abruptly becoming acquainted with your interior self, then you missed out.

Now that I’ve been lucky enough to live in the city awhile, if ever I’m wandering around in the snow as I’m wont to do in the coming days–turning on this record is one of the few things that will make me reexamine the sights I’ve become prone to ignore—and admire the bright lights anew.