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JamsBio’s 12-year-old contributor, Emma, returns from summer camp and shares her thoughts about the debut album by indie rock stars, Vampire Weekend…on vinyl nonetheless!

When I got home from camp I retraced my steps. All the steps I’d ever taken. Trying to remember everything, all the rooms and doors, the locks and stairs, everything. Like a determined captain, I surveyed the seas for even the slightest change. Among the few I spied were a moved dresser, some misplaced candles, and the most exciting, a vinyl record.

Displayed on the modern cover was an orange printed chandelier that hung from a white, empty ceiling. In the corner sat a lonely door. Plastic party bats were draped over the crystals while people’s shadowed heads bounced at the bottom of the lens. “Vampire Weekend” read the white blocked letters on the album. It sparked interest, but I merely shrugged. There were much more important things to do.

A couple days ago I thought of the mysterious record again. My dad, as if reading my thoughts, pulled it out of the sticky plastic wrapper and the cardboard cover and spun it on our turntable. It popped and crackled for a little bit before going to the first song, “Mansard Roof.”

“I see a Mansard Roof in the trees, I see a salty message written in the eaves,” rang the pure voice of Ezra Koenig, accompanied by Rostam Batmanglij, Chris Tomson, and Chris Baio. Dad and I listened quietly and murmured words of approval such as, “yeah, good” and “hmm… acquired.” After a minute or so I pulled myself off the couch and danced. A silly dance it was, being mirrored in the windows by a thousand Me’s.

My sister came in and gave me a weird look before joining in the dance too. I guess we are just odd that way. When my mom entered shouting praise my dad pulled out a yellow page of lyrics from the sleeve. So we sang the words, all of us, skipping the few bad words that peppered the songs. That was when I fell in love.

With the band I mean. The beat was so unique, the words, poetic. It seemed like the words themselves were masterpieces. The melody just added to the poetry. The music was simple. “Indie Rock” was what one website called it, but I begged to differ. The music needed no category. It was just music.

Bands like this make me wonder about the sanity of music categories. Who cares if it’s country or hip-hop or rock as long as it’s good? There should just be one single category called “MUSIC” and, inside that, all the songs that make you remember. Remember the feeling of wind rushing through your hair, of leaves crunching under your feet, the whisper of trees, and why you love. Because, really, isn’t that the purpose of music itself?

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