A few weeks ago my girlfriend and I were driving to a bar in Seattle's Ballard neighborhood. It was a cold, damp winter night in the emerald city. Fog from the ship canal crept up hillsides and down arterials. The holidays were in full effect, and North Seattle seemed to be in a deep slumber. We were listening to a burned CD which happened to be the new Department of Eagles record, Welcome to Ear Park.
"It's just so bad," she said anxiously, smiling.
"What?" I asked. I thought it sounded pretty good.
"Well, it's just that they got a really high rating on Pitchfork. And I love this album. And I feel bad about it."
The problem with popularity and the problem with developed taste is that sometimes the right art feels wrong for inexplicable reasons. This album is fantastic and I don't think there is any reason to pay any heed to Pitchfork's rating, except that Pitchfork seems to represent a certain kind of success, which may or may-not signal the end of authentically unacknowledged talent. But fuck that authenticity shit. There is great, completely obscure, music everywhere.
The point is, that night in Ballard, against the backdrop of a gentrifying nexus for what was old Seattle, I discovered a wonderful band with wistful, ghostly aspirations to songs that speak to dark city streets, darker personal histories, seeing old friends, and passing time with the people you care about.
Department of Eagles are currently playing a sold-out US tour. Tickets are still available for San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle dates.
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