Coachella was about two things for me:
1. Sir Paul McCartney
2. Other Stuff
I've already waxed on about how Macca stole the show, from loving tributes to Linda (on the 11th anniversary of her death) to the fireworks spectacular of "Live And Let Die" to thousands of people singing "Hey Jude" in perfect unison, but in the category of "Other Stuff," we have:
- M.I.A. (well, mostly her dancers and Rye Rye, who was thankfully there to pick up the rap slack left by M.I.A.'s underperformance)
- Hipster craptards who spent the entire day in the VIP area drinking, admiring one another, and waiting for Jared Leto to sulk by, instead of actually checking out bands
- Horn section from Antibalas + Tunde's badass Latin shuffle = another great TVOTR performance
- Peeing in an air conditioned bathroom behind the stage, only to emerge into a delicious photo op with Kanye "Fishsticks" West
- Getting a contact high at the Fleet Foxes show
- 10pm pizza salvation
And:
OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART A
When Tanya and I checked in to the Hilton Garden Inn in arid, beige, geriatric Hidden Valley Rancho Mirage, California, we were told that our room was given away due to our checking in a day late (never mind the fact that management okayed the late check-in). We sulked, we pleaded, we finally got a room. Before we left the front desk with our hard-won room keys, Snarky Front Desk Guy slipped us each a small grey bag that said "Welcome." He kind of smirked and half-winked and sent us on our way.
When we arrived in the room, it was a suite...with one bed. There was certainly a pull-out couch, but considering it was upholstered with slippery old-man-polyester circa 1972, we thought it wise to ask for a room with two beds, instead. Snarky Front Desk Guy said that the hotel was booked solid, and shooed me off. I sulked back, buoyed only by the promise of Macca later in the evening...and the "Welcome" bag of free stuff. You know how much I like free stuff.
Tanya peeks in hers - "Eh. Coupons." I look in mine...coupons, shampoo/conditioner samples, ponytail holders, Aleve, Pepcid AC, and...
What? No. What?? Noooo. What???
....Silky Glide K-Y Jelly. For Her Pleasure.
Needless to say, upon checkout, we both left our samples for the housekeeping staff.
OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART B
The next day, Tanya and I hopped into Ruby to pick up Cornflake and head over to the festival. While admiring the relative non-tackiness of Cornflake's room, we saw a menu of spa options for Spa Esmerelda. Curious, we opened it...and then saw this offering:
GARDEN OF ROMANCE
Experience this romantic treatment in the spa garden and enjoy the warm desert sun, flowering gardens, and the soothing sound of cascading water. Your therapists will prepare a private bath of herbal elixir to soothe. While soaking, you and your partner will be able to "play in the mud" with an interactive facial mask. Your treatment sanctuary will be adorned with rose petals as you enjoy an aromatic massage.
Two questions immediately arose:
1) How exactly will you and your partner "play in the mud?" Why is "play in the mud" in quotation marks? Is the massage therapist hanging out with you? In the mud? "Playing?" Is "playing" just a euphemism for "sexing?"
2) What exactly is an "interactive facial mask?" While you're "playing," are you using your pointer finger to trace funny things in your partner's facial mask? Is the therapist tickling you while you have the mask on?
I think that my friends who went to the Michael Jackson auction exhibit today were less creeped out than I was after reading that.
Showing posts with label live music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label live music. Show all posts
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
MEAT - APPARENTLY, STILL MURDER
Ridiculous Amount Of Time It Took Me To Get Home From Culver City At Noon Today: 50 minutes
Ridiculous Amount Of Time It Took Me To Drive From My House To Just East Of Palm Springs Today: 4 hours
Artists I Wanted To See At Coachella But Missed Because Of Said Traffic And Also Because The Stupid Hotel Totally Screwed Up Our Reservation And Wasted Thirty Precious Minutes Of Our Time: The Black Keys, Leonard Cohen
(Supposedly) Gay Celibate Husband I Finally Got To See Perform For The First Time And During Whose Performance I May Have Immaculately Conceived Said GCH's Baby By Way Of Osmosis: Morrissey
Reason All That Driving And Shit Was Worth It: Paul McCartney
I wasn't even going to come out to the desert at all (keywords: desert, dry, hot, people on drugs flailing around with glowsticks), but then tickets and super VIP passes magically worked their way into my paws and I couldn't say no. Tanya and I piled into ole Ruby and crawled across the 10, only to arrive at our hotel and find out that they gave our room away due to some front desk misunderstanding/malfunction.
We missed the Black Keys, and we arrived just in time to catch a few Leonard Cohen songs. What I did hear was deep and dark, and did nothing to belie his 73 years. Break it on down, brotha!
Then on to the main stage for Moz, a man I've pined for since the Smiths served as part of my high school trifecta of mopedom. My impressions, you ask?
a) Morrissey is one hot bastard
b) His voice is still panty-droppingly torchified
c) Multiply that by 20
The only odd moment for me? When he started pinching his nose and grimacing and cutting short lines to his songs, explaining, "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human."
Dude, I know you're a veggie, but a) that was creepy, and b) have you never performed in a festival setting before where there's meat a-cookin'?
He ducked offstage, presumably to vomit, then returned and said, "The smell of burning animals is making me sick; I just couldn't bear it," then proceeded to swagger around, grimacing a bit. It totally unsexed the whole thing for me...and oddly, caused me to crave an In N Out Burger, plain, protein-style.
But Paul, OH PAUL!
If you've never seen Paul McCartney live - which I haven't, until tonight - you MUST. He is the consummate performer, he has a catalogue spanning over 40 years (and he performs songs from across the spectrum), and his band kicked all of the ass.
Ok, and there were fireworks. Fireworks always win in my book.
But really - Paul McCartney? PAUL MCCARTNEY?
ROCK GOD!
I must admit that I kind of wrote him off in the "old guy milking his iconic status for dollars" category, but tonight - all three hours, three encores of it - proved me entirely wrong. His performance was simply the best rock show I've ever seen. EVER.
I just want to hug Paul McCartney and never let go.
Ridiculous Amount Of Time It Took Me To Drive From My House To Just East Of Palm Springs Today: 4 hours
Artists I Wanted To See At Coachella But Missed Because Of Said Traffic And Also Because The Stupid Hotel Totally Screwed Up Our Reservation And Wasted Thirty Precious Minutes Of Our Time: The Black Keys, Leonard Cohen
(Supposedly) Gay Celibate Husband I Finally Got To See Perform For The First Time And During Whose Performance I May Have Immaculately Conceived Said GCH's Baby By Way Of Osmosis: Morrissey
Reason All That Driving And Shit Was Worth It: Paul McCartney
I wasn't even going to come out to the desert at all (keywords: desert, dry, hot, people on drugs flailing around with glowsticks), but then tickets and super VIP passes magically worked their way into my paws and I couldn't say no. Tanya and I piled into ole Ruby and crawled across the 10, only to arrive at our hotel and find out that they gave our room away due to some front desk misunderstanding/malfunction.
We missed the Black Keys, and we arrived just in time to catch a few Leonard Cohen songs. What I did hear was deep and dark, and did nothing to belie his 73 years. Break it on down, brotha!
Then on to the main stage for Moz, a man I've pined for since the Smiths served as part of my high school trifecta of mopedom. My impressions, you ask?
a) Morrissey is one hot bastard
b) His voice is still panty-droppingly torchified
c) Multiply that by 20
The only odd moment for me? When he started pinching his nose and grimacing and cutting short lines to his songs, explaining, "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope to God it's human."
Dude, I know you're a veggie, but a) that was creepy, and b) have you never performed in a festival setting before where there's meat a-cookin'?
He ducked offstage, presumably to vomit, then returned and said, "The smell of burning animals is making me sick; I just couldn't bear it," then proceeded to swagger around, grimacing a bit. It totally unsexed the whole thing for me...and oddly, caused me to crave an In N Out Burger, plain, protein-style.
But Paul, OH PAUL!
If you've never seen Paul McCartney live - which I haven't, until tonight - you MUST. He is the consummate performer, he has a catalogue spanning over 40 years (and he performs songs from across the spectrum), and his band kicked all of the ass.
Ok, and there were fireworks. Fireworks always win in my book.
But really - Paul McCartney? PAUL MCCARTNEY?
ROCK GOD!
I must admit that I kind of wrote him off in the "old guy milking his iconic status for dollars" category, but tonight - all three hours, three encores of it - proved me entirely wrong. His performance was simply the best rock show I've ever seen. EVER.
I just want to hug Paul McCartney and never let go.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
THE BEST BAND I DIDN'T SEE AT SXSW
Sometime the buzz'll gitcha...
And then it will toss you off, half-baked, unsatisfied.
Such is the case with half of tonight's show at Spaceland - a post-SXSW double-bill of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart and Austin's own White Denim, both highly recommended to me by various friends and hangers-on during (and after) the festival. When Laurie mentioned that she was headed out to see them both tonight, I parted with $12.25 and joined her, stage left, ready to fulfill the promise of palpable, frenzied capital B-U-Z-Z.
Sadly, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart were just...good. A quick flip of the ole dictionary will tell you that Good ain't Bad, but it's definitely not Great. I like shoegaze, I like a buzzy synth. I like double-guitar attacks. What I don't like are slightly-too-precious-and-shy twee vocals that are nearly inaudible, and when a band has all the stage presence of my grandma taking a nap.
(Love you, gramma.)
South-By Strikeout, sadly.
But White Denim made up for it with their space-rock blues, entirely captivating, even when they tread a wee bit too close to the fuckin'-rockin'-out vs. totally-jammin'-dude line.
Guitar Guy had an array of pedals, including a much-lusted-after Boomerang that I stared at for most of one entire song, and he used them to dive into psychedelia and layer on sounds no doubt culled from teenage years spent immersed in 70's prog rock.
Drum Guy sat front and center and threw alla his weight on the floor tom and the crash, making delightful loud noise after delightful loud noise. Though I called these guys out as being "space-rock blues," Drum Guy didn't dwell in the blues-rock ghetto, and though I loves me a good blues-rock experience, he spanked the blues with a hint of punk and I loved it even more.
Most surprising to me was Bass Guy, who looked like he was swept out of algebra class at the Rock n' Roll Middle School For Clean-Shaven, Ruddy-Cheeked Androgynes, but he ground into his four strings like he was having his way with Carmen Electra or something. You know it's a good show when you're noticing the BASS PLAYER.
No offense to all of you bass players, but really - who watches the bass player at a show? Unless you're a bass player yourself, or you're the mother of one, or you're hoping to bone one because neither the singer nor the guitarist are available and the drummer is just too crazy-seeming, NO ONE pays attention to the bass player.
So kudos you, Pat. Or Sam. Or Chris. Or whatever your name is. Kudos you.
CHECK OUT WHITE DENIM:
And then it will toss you off, half-baked, unsatisfied.
Such is the case with half of tonight's show at Spaceland - a post-SXSW double-bill of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart and Austin's own White Denim, both highly recommended to me by various friends and hangers-on during (and after) the festival. When Laurie mentioned that she was headed out to see them both tonight, I parted with $12.25 and joined her, stage left, ready to fulfill the promise of palpable, frenzied capital B-U-Z-Z.
Sadly, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart were just...good. A quick flip of the ole dictionary will tell you that Good ain't Bad, but it's definitely not Great. I like shoegaze, I like a buzzy synth. I like double-guitar attacks. What I don't like are slightly-too-precious-and-shy twee vocals that are nearly inaudible, and when a band has all the stage presence of my grandma taking a nap.
(Love you, gramma.)
South-By Strikeout, sadly.
But White Denim made up for it with their space-rock blues, entirely captivating, even when they tread a wee bit too close to the fuckin'-rockin'-out vs. totally-jammin'-dude line.
Guitar Guy had an array of pedals, including a much-lusted-after Boomerang that I stared at for most of one entire song, and he used them to dive into psychedelia and layer on sounds no doubt culled from teenage years spent immersed in 70's prog rock.
Drum Guy sat front and center and threw alla his weight on the floor tom and the crash, making delightful loud noise after delightful loud noise. Though I called these guys out as being "space-rock blues," Drum Guy didn't dwell in the blues-rock ghetto, and though I loves me a good blues-rock experience, he spanked the blues with a hint of punk and I loved it even more.
Most surprising to me was Bass Guy, who looked like he was swept out of algebra class at the Rock n' Roll Middle School For Clean-Shaven, Ruddy-Cheeked Androgynes, but he ground into his four strings like he was having his way with Carmen Electra or something. You know it's a good show when you're noticing the BASS PLAYER.
No offense to all of you bass players, but really - who watches the bass player at a show? Unless you're a bass player yourself, or you're the mother of one, or you're hoping to bone one because neither the singer nor the guitarist are available and the drummer is just too crazy-seeming, NO ONE pays attention to the bass player.
So kudos you, Pat. Or Sam. Or Chris. Or whatever your name is. Kudos you.
CHECK OUT WHITE DENIM:
Monday, March 30, 2009
NOT JUST GOOD, BUT GRATE
Halfway through The Grates' set at Spaceland tonight, Giselle shouted out, "MY CHEEKS HURT!"
Presumably, from smiling for a solid twenty minutes straight.
I totally empathized.
On the way home tonight, I tried really, really hard to think of when I've seen such a happy band.
Nope, can't think of such a thing. The Grates are definitely The Happiest.
Drummer Alana sits unassumingly at her kit, permagrin slapped from cheek to pudgy cheek, playing all herky jerky like a kid simultaneously overstimulated and trying to rein in their sugar high.
And singer Patience? White socks cranked around her knees, she bounds around the stage, Siouxsie after shooting up rainbows and lollipops with a sprinkling of meth backstage. She's transfixing, hopping and pointing and smiling and bouncing and Roger Rabbit-dancing and twirling onstage, getting off on the most genuine of connections with her audience. She peeeenches our heads with her forefinger and thumb, dedicates songs to us, comes out and dances with us, places her hand on our shoulders familiarly as she encourages us to join her in chorus. Simply put, she is Happy personified, and I love it.
The icing on the ridiculously sweaty, joyful evening? Unfurling a $20 bill, asking for a T-shirt and a CD, and having Patience lean in conspiratorially to tell me, "Shhhh...you're getting an extra T-shirt in there. It's like there's a menu and you just ordered off of it. You ordered off the menu and you get an extra T-shirt," then patting me on the shoulder, thanking me, and pumping her fist in the air. Awesome.
Watch - "Aw Yeah" by The Grates:
Presumably, from smiling for a solid twenty minutes straight.
I totally empathized.
On the way home tonight, I tried really, really hard to think of when I've seen such a happy band.
Nope, can't think of such a thing. The Grates are definitely The Happiest.
Drummer Alana sits unassumingly at her kit, permagrin slapped from cheek to pudgy cheek, playing all herky jerky like a kid simultaneously overstimulated and trying to rein in their sugar high.
And singer Patience? White socks cranked around her knees, she bounds around the stage, Siouxsie after shooting up rainbows and lollipops with a sprinkling of meth backstage. She's transfixing, hopping and pointing and smiling and bouncing and Roger Rabbit-dancing and twirling onstage, getting off on the most genuine of connections with her audience. She peeeenches our heads with her forefinger and thumb, dedicates songs to us, comes out and dances with us, places her hand on our shoulders familiarly as she encourages us to join her in chorus. Simply put, she is Happy personified, and I love it.
The icing on the ridiculously sweaty, joyful evening? Unfurling a $20 bill, asking for a T-shirt and a CD, and having Patience lean in conspiratorially to tell me, "Shhhh...you're getting an extra T-shirt in there. It's like there's a menu and you just ordered off of it. You ordered off the menu and you get an extra T-shirt," then patting me on the shoulder, thanking me, and pumping her fist in the air. Awesome.
Watch - "Aw Yeah" by The Grates:
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
SXSW - THE AFTERMATH (AKA - YES, THERE WAS A DAY 4)
Yeah...so there was a SXSW - Day 4, but I just never got around to posting about it.
That's not to say that it wasn't awesome.
It was.
Or that I didn't see some great music.
I did.
It's just that I went to bed on Friday night feeling like a pound of live Maine lobsters had taken up residence in my entire digestive tract, from gut to throat, and by the time Saturday evening rolled around, I could barely speak, much less muster the energy to comment on what I enjoyed all day through my germy haze.
So let's take a trip back down memory lane. If I recall:
LIGHTS ON
Like a zombie, I amble down Red River to the Red Eyed Fly, to see Lights On at noon. But it's noon:oh:five and the doors are shut. Hmpf. I catch a glimpse through the back - Oh! There's Chris! And Daniel! They will see me! They will let me in! [Ignore fire ants burning my entire esophagus] Texts, calls...ignored. I run into Chris Mollere and we make small talk. Clearly he just woke up, as well. When we finally get in to see the band, they are kick-in-yer-pants electro-synth rock greatness. Why do I have to feel like scorpions are crawling up and down my throat? Why?
PRESS HERE/DOMINO PARTY
Blindly make my way to the beautiful French Legation Museum grounds. Trip a little as I walk in, because my throat is burning like I just spent an entire week crossing the Gobi. Buy water. See Mo. Make feeble attempt at conversation with various people, all of whom probably thought I was either extremely hungover or on really bad drugs. Excuse myself to go die a painful death in my hotel room.
NOPE
As soon as I drag myself back to my bed, Daniel texts that Lindsay Wolfington is around and wants to meet me before she flies home. In 20 minutes. Drink the last Emergen-C in one hot, fiery gulp. Eat cough drops like after-dinner mints. Die a little more inside. Walk 16 minutes to meet Lindsay. Meet Adam Swart. Drink mojitos to quell the sensation of hot lava inside of my neck. Pray the alcohol kills whatever bacteria have taken up residence in there.
CHOP SHOP PARTY
How did I get here? Did I walk? Did someone carry me? I know that I mingled and talked and acted human, but I did not feel human, that I assure you. I think I might have scared Amy Treco with my ghastly pallor.
30 MINUTE NAP
Bliss!
SUGAROO! DINNER
Hot Tea. Ice water. Alternate. Conserve my voice. Feels like this may be my last meal before death takes me in her burning grip. At least it was really tasty.
EUGENE MIRMAN
Tried for a 2nd round of Efterklang, but the line was down the alley. In my weakened, delirious state, I cannot stand in an alley. No. Mo texts. I join she, Ric, & Ben for some comedy at Esther's Follies. Ric hands me a whiskey. It burns the burn that is already burning in my throat. But I am still hopeful that germs are dying with every sip.
DUKE SPIRIT / SILVERSUN PICKUPS
The homestretch. I may faint. I eat 20 Luden's cough drops and drink all of the free water in the cooler. I try not to collapse on Mo and Bronson. Leila Moss lifts my spirits with her slinky Lady Jagger dance moves and raspy howling. Silversuns do her one up with their CAPITAL R-O-C-K. Drew Barrymore pushes in front of us for "Lazy Eye," hippie-dancing, arms-a-waving. I barely recognize her because I am certainly two steps away from death's doorstep at this point.
SLEEP
So that was Day 4, in case you were wondering.
That's not to say that it wasn't awesome.
It was.
Or that I didn't see some great music.
I did.
It's just that I went to bed on Friday night feeling like a pound of live Maine lobsters had taken up residence in my entire digestive tract, from gut to throat, and by the time Saturday evening rolled around, I could barely speak, much less muster the energy to comment on what I enjoyed all day through my germy haze.
So let's take a trip back down memory lane. If I recall:
LIGHTS ON
Like a zombie, I amble down Red River to the Red Eyed Fly, to see Lights On at noon. But it's noon:oh:five and the doors are shut. Hmpf. I catch a glimpse through the back - Oh! There's Chris! And Daniel! They will see me! They will let me in! [Ignore fire ants burning my entire esophagus] Texts, calls...ignored. I run into Chris Mollere and we make small talk. Clearly he just woke up, as well. When we finally get in to see the band, they are kick-in-yer-pants electro-synth rock greatness. Why do I have to feel like scorpions are crawling up and down my throat? Why?
PRESS HERE/DOMINO PARTY
Blindly make my way to the beautiful French Legation Museum grounds. Trip a little as I walk in, because my throat is burning like I just spent an entire week crossing the Gobi. Buy water. See Mo. Make feeble attempt at conversation with various people, all of whom probably thought I was either extremely hungover or on really bad drugs. Excuse myself to go die a painful death in my hotel room.
NOPE
As soon as I drag myself back to my bed, Daniel texts that Lindsay Wolfington is around and wants to meet me before she flies home. In 20 minutes. Drink the last Emergen-C in one hot, fiery gulp. Eat cough drops like after-dinner mints. Die a little more inside. Walk 16 minutes to meet Lindsay. Meet Adam Swart. Drink mojitos to quell the sensation of hot lava inside of my neck. Pray the alcohol kills whatever bacteria have taken up residence in there.
CHOP SHOP PARTY
How did I get here? Did I walk? Did someone carry me? I know that I mingled and talked and acted human, but I did not feel human, that I assure you. I think I might have scared Amy Treco with my ghastly pallor.
30 MINUTE NAP
Bliss!
SUGAROO! DINNER
Hot Tea. Ice water. Alternate. Conserve my voice. Feels like this may be my last meal before death takes me in her burning grip. At least it was really tasty.
EUGENE MIRMAN
Tried for a 2nd round of Efterklang, but the line was down the alley. In my weakened, delirious state, I cannot stand in an alley. No. Mo texts. I join she, Ric, & Ben for some comedy at Esther's Follies. Ric hands me a whiskey. It burns the burn that is already burning in my throat. But I am still hopeful that germs are dying with every sip.
DUKE SPIRIT / SILVERSUN PICKUPS
The homestretch. I may faint. I eat 20 Luden's cough drops and drink all of the free water in the cooler. I try not to collapse on Mo and Bronson. Leila Moss lifts my spirits with her slinky Lady Jagger dance moves and raspy howling. Silversuns do her one up with their CAPITAL R-O-C-K. Drew Barrymore pushes in front of us for "Lazy Eye," hippie-dancing, arms-a-waving. I barely recognize her because I am certainly two steps away from death's doorstep at this point.
SLEEP
So that was Day 4, in case you were wondering.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
SXSW - DAY 3
I have the chills, a sore throat, and bags under my eyes. Don't expect any fancy writin'.
YAYS
- Vitamin-packed lunch w/ Shayla of W+K
- Scraggly, dirty garage blues of The Fumes
- Atmospheric waves of shoegazey sound from School of Seven Bells
- N'awlins food, cajun grooves, and fine folks @ Bug par-tay
- The overstuffed cab ride and photo session back across the rivah from the Bug par-tay
- Mojitos and mingling at Bank Robber/Zinc par-tay
- Cajoling my way (with the solicitor) into the NZ party, though I only caught 1 or 2 Cut Off Yr Hands songs before I got let in
- Detour to The Infamous Ric Baca Pool Party, leaving with Metallica press pass around my neck
- Boiling Pot!!!!!!
- Skipping Metallica for a 2nd dose of Mumford & Sons
- High-thumbing w/ Baca, Ben, & Mo
NAYS
- Hoofing all the way over to Scoot Inn to hear some Nino Moschella, only to find myself sick as a dog
- Waking up today with swollen glands
But I shall forge on, Emergen-C willing.
YAYS
- Vitamin-packed lunch w/ Shayla of W+K
- Scraggly, dirty garage blues of The Fumes
- Atmospheric waves of shoegazey sound from School of Seven Bells
- N'awlins food, cajun grooves, and fine folks @ Bug par-tay
- The overstuffed cab ride and photo session back across the rivah from the Bug par-tay
- Mojitos and mingling at Bank Robber/Zinc par-tay
- Cajoling my way (with the solicitor) into the NZ party, though I only caught 1 or 2 Cut Off Yr Hands songs before I got let in
- Detour to The Infamous Ric Baca Pool Party, leaving with Metallica press pass around my neck
- Boiling Pot!!!!!!
- Skipping Metallica for a 2nd dose of Mumford & Sons
- High-thumbing w/ Baca, Ben, & Mo
NAYS
- Hoofing all the way over to Scoot Inn to hear some Nino Moschella, only to find myself sick as a dog
- Waking up today with swollen glands
But I shall forge on, Emergen-C willing.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
SXSW - DAY 2
WILDBIRDS & PEACEDRUMS
Soon as I headed over, work summoned me to hotel room, but I put it off enough to enjoy some hearty Nina Simonesque blues scat-bellowing & minimalist tribal drumming. Steel drum! Dude! Where'd that come from?? Do it again!
MARK OLSON & GARY LOURIS
Ran into Eric Danton of Hartford Courant. And uber-Last Town Chorus fan button man guy. And Trish Wagner. And David Hirschland. And gave Marky Mark a big hug. Then wached he and Gary sing sweetly folksy timeless tunes. Beauty.
THE GRATES
Took awesome photo with Mo, as we do. Drank free delicious shot of something and something. Then rocked the fuckity fuck out. Singer is something special. Like "special kid" special. And that's why I loved her. Tube socks! And white polyester shorts jacked up to her armpits. And high voltage rock n roll. And the drummer smiled nonstop. I love smiling drummers. I should smile more when I'm playing. Noted.
THE DRISKILL
Eat. Rest. Eat. Rest. Juliette Lewis, flower in hair. Eat. Rest.
HAWK & A HACKSAW
Tuba, trumpet, violin, accordion = gypsy jammin'. Sorry to the guy I kept elbowing not-on-purpose. And thank you for remaining stoic in the face of adversity.
THE GUGGENHEIM GROTTO
Hey UFO peeps! Word to the up. I like the way our favorite Irish folk rock duo is now incorporating copious ukelele. Uke it up.
THERMALS, BLITZEN TRAPPER
BUST. The lines for these were here to nevereverever. Find Daniel Higglesbeebigglesbeeboo, Nike JT, & others instead. Impressed by Daniel's meticulously ordered, notated, & bolded schedule. Wish my own included "sleep."
EFTERKLANG **FAVORITE OF THE DAY**
Sweet, delicious, melodic, 7-man surprise. I clapped, I danced, I marveled. Sing so pretty, play so pretty, moustache so pretty. All-star jamz, xylophone included. Top notch awesomeness.
SOME BAND I DON'T KNOW THE NAME OF WHOSE BASSIST LOOKED ALL OF 14 AND WAS BADASS
Finally, after nearly 48 hours of text/phone tag, I meet up w/ Kevin Taylor & Libby from the Shooting Gallery. Drinks, rememories, awesome times. Eyes start crossing. Start walking back to room. Well, hey Britt Daniel! Lookin' good. You can turn my camera on any ole time.
BED
Now. Had to skip the Deep Vibration because I may die if I don't sleep. Not an exaggeration. Good night.
Soon as I headed over, work summoned me to hotel room, but I put it off enough to enjoy some hearty Nina Simonesque blues scat-bellowing & minimalist tribal drumming. Steel drum! Dude! Where'd that come from?? Do it again!
MARK OLSON & GARY LOURIS
Ran into Eric Danton of Hartford Courant. And uber-Last Town Chorus fan button man guy. And Trish Wagner. And David Hirschland. And gave Marky Mark a big hug. Then wached he and Gary sing sweetly folksy timeless tunes. Beauty.
THE GRATES
Took awesome photo with Mo, as we do. Drank free delicious shot of something and something. Then rocked the fuckity fuck out. Singer is something special. Like "special kid" special. And that's why I loved her. Tube socks! And white polyester shorts jacked up to her armpits. And high voltage rock n roll. And the drummer smiled nonstop. I love smiling drummers. I should smile more when I'm playing. Noted.
THE DRISKILL
Eat. Rest. Eat. Rest. Juliette Lewis, flower in hair. Eat. Rest.
HAWK & A HACKSAW
Tuba, trumpet, violin, accordion = gypsy jammin'. Sorry to the guy I kept elbowing not-on-purpose. And thank you for remaining stoic in the face of adversity.
THE GUGGENHEIM GROTTO
Hey UFO peeps! Word to the up. I like the way our favorite Irish folk rock duo is now incorporating copious ukelele. Uke it up.
THERMALS, BLITZEN TRAPPER
BUST. The lines for these were here to nevereverever. Find Daniel Higglesbeebigglesbeeboo, Nike JT, & others instead. Impressed by Daniel's meticulously ordered, notated, & bolded schedule. Wish my own included "sleep."
EFTERKLANG **FAVORITE OF THE DAY**
Sweet, delicious, melodic, 7-man surprise. I clapped, I danced, I marveled. Sing so pretty, play so pretty, moustache so pretty. All-star jamz, xylophone included. Top notch awesomeness.
SOME BAND I DON'T KNOW THE NAME OF WHOSE BASSIST LOOKED ALL OF 14 AND WAS BADASS
Finally, after nearly 48 hours of text/phone tag, I meet up w/ Kevin Taylor & Libby from the Shooting Gallery. Drinks, rememories, awesome times. Eyes start crossing. Start walking back to room. Well, hey Britt Daniel! Lookin' good. You can turn my camera on any ole time.
BED
Now. Had to skip the Deep Vibration because I may die if I don't sleep. Not an exaggeration. Good night.
SXSW - DAY 1
BEGINNING
Up at 4:15am. Text from Sir Ricardo Baca at 5am. Double-planing it to Austin. Caloric intake: a Luna bar and a coffee
SALT LICK
Ridin' w/ funny, road-weary Irishmen (The Guggenheim Grotto) on day 1,245,555 of their US tour. Delicious BBQ, first calories after Luna bar & coffee, besides caffeinated mints. (Yes, you read correctly). Start to feel human again. Enjoy the company of Domino, Native Tongue, The Guggenheim Grotto, Max Tundra, Mara from Bug, Mike from McCann Erickson, & JT from Nike. Belly full.
LADYHAWKE
Synthesized 80's lite through a veil of blonde bangs. "She could have been in Labyrinth with David Bowie. Who's got the baby with the voodoo? You do!" I say to Mo. She laughs. We hydrate.
HEARTLESS BASTARDS
Move closer, in Avett anticipation. Meet Carter w/ Rollo & Grady - he skools us in how to get yungins to gitcher drinks when you're at a show. It works. Carter is magic. Heartless Bastards...not so much. First two songs promising walls of wailing blues rock...and then it crawls into a wall and sits there like a dull midtempo country rock lump. They play for entirely too long. We fidget. They close with a number that included three REPEATED solos at the end. Like they're Primus. Or Zeppelin. Or...
THE AVETT BROTHERS
Delicious. Happy happy times. A yungin brings me whiskey on the rocks. Good kid. Ric Baca & Denver gang appear and hugs all around. Delicious hugs and happytimes. But what...5 songs? Turns out the Heartless Bastards, true to their name, played 20 min too long and we all lose out. But Avetts are awesome. And they play a catchy tune from upcoming Rick Rubin album, for which I am simultaneously nervous & excited.
DD/MM/YYYY ** HIGHLIGHT OF DAY **
Mo and I stumble in after Kevin Taylor mentions he might be at Emo's post-Obey. No Kevin, maybe b/c it's Emo's Jr. I just want to say "Elmo" when I type that. This show is THE RAD. (Except for the couple ballroom moshing. Perfect description.) Loud, melodic, punk, spazzy, tuneful, masterful noise orchestrated by 5 superrad Canadian kids. Their guitar broke. Their drumhead broke. Then they said, "We're still looking for a place to sleep tonight. We have a tent. We're sleeping in a tent and our stuff's broke." And then the rocked the shit some more.
MUMFORD & SONS
I go solo. (Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down, so my hair can blow? No.) I realize my Artist band will gain me entry to Artist Lounge, so I go in just because I can. Boring. But there's drinks. Head to Friends. Mumfords = Sweet English trio, looking tired and harried, begging forgiveness as they were stuck at La Guardia (cesspool) Airport for 10 hours today. Somehow, their keyboardist, Ben, did not make the cut. Is he still at La Guardia? Was he deported? Is he in a holding cell? Who knows. But they're sweet little British bluegrassy folksy sweetie pies and though I wanted to deck the girl in front of me who kept drunkenly falling backwards onto me, I had a tender Mumford moment. Even sans Ben.
NOW
Mo is plotting Thurs. I'm plotting sleep. Did I mention the been up since 4:15am L.A. time thing? Yeah. I did.
zzzzzz
Up at 4:15am. Text from Sir Ricardo Baca at 5am. Double-planing it to Austin. Caloric intake: a Luna bar and a coffee
SALT LICK
Ridin' w/ funny, road-weary Irishmen (The Guggenheim Grotto) on day 1,245,555 of their US tour. Delicious BBQ, first calories after Luna bar & coffee, besides caffeinated mints. (Yes, you read correctly). Start to feel human again. Enjoy the company of Domino, Native Tongue, The Guggenheim Grotto, Max Tundra, Mara from Bug, Mike from McCann Erickson, & JT from Nike. Belly full.
LADYHAWKE
Synthesized 80's lite through a veil of blonde bangs. "She could have been in Labyrinth with David Bowie. Who's got the baby with the voodoo? You do!" I say to Mo. She laughs. We hydrate.
HEARTLESS BASTARDS
Move closer, in Avett anticipation. Meet Carter w/ Rollo & Grady - he skools us in how to get yungins to gitcher drinks when you're at a show. It works. Carter is magic. Heartless Bastards...not so much. First two songs promising walls of wailing blues rock...and then it crawls into a wall and sits there like a dull midtempo country rock lump. They play for entirely too long. We fidget. They close with a number that included three REPEATED solos at the end. Like they're Primus. Or Zeppelin. Or...
THE AVETT BROTHERS
Delicious. Happy happy times. A yungin brings me whiskey on the rocks. Good kid. Ric Baca & Denver gang appear and hugs all around. Delicious hugs and happytimes. But what...5 songs? Turns out the Heartless Bastards, true to their name, played 20 min too long and we all lose out. But Avetts are awesome. And they play a catchy tune from upcoming Rick Rubin album, for which I am simultaneously nervous & excited.
DD/MM/YYYY ** HIGHLIGHT OF DAY **
Mo and I stumble in after Kevin Taylor mentions he might be at Emo's post-Obey. No Kevin, maybe b/c it's Emo's Jr. I just want to say "Elmo" when I type that. This show is THE RAD. (Except for the couple ballroom moshing. Perfect description.) Loud, melodic, punk, spazzy, tuneful, masterful noise orchestrated by 5 superrad Canadian kids. Their guitar broke. Their drumhead broke. Then they said, "We're still looking for a place to sleep tonight. We have a tent. We're sleeping in a tent and our stuff's broke." And then the rocked the shit some more.
MUMFORD & SONS
I go solo. (Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down, so my hair can blow? No.) I realize my Artist band will gain me entry to Artist Lounge, so I go in just because I can. Boring. But there's drinks. Head to Friends. Mumfords = Sweet English trio, looking tired and harried, begging forgiveness as they were stuck at La Guardia (cesspool) Airport for 10 hours today. Somehow, their keyboardist, Ben, did not make the cut. Is he still at La Guardia? Was he deported? Is he in a holding cell? Who knows. But they're sweet little British bluegrassy folksy sweetie pies and though I wanted to deck the girl in front of me who kept drunkenly falling backwards onto me, I had a tender Mumford moment. Even sans Ben.
NOW
Mo is plotting Thurs. I'm plotting sleep. Did I mention the been up since 4:15am L.A. time thing? Yeah. I did.
zzzzzz
Friday, March 6, 2009
WHEN WORK & PLEASURE DOTH MEET
This morning as we prepared to record Episode 24 of the iTunes Weekly Rewind (feat. the music of The Watchmen, Neko Case, Simon & Garfunkel, and the 20th anniversary of Do The Right Thing), Bobs & Rockbarry were chatting during his call-in about PPP, and I slammed my pointer finger ("index finger," my ass) down on the Talk button:
"Dude, PPP is amazing. We rep them for licensing. They. Are. Awesome."
Then I picked up my laptop, opened my iTunes, and started playing PPP's "On A Cloud," which is just a massively dope, catchy shoop-a-doop hip-hop ride to funkytown. And then I held up my laptop and pushed the Talk button again, and danced around in the control room, swangin' my hips with my laptop in the air. Bobs bobbed his head; Rockbarry couldn't hear or see me because he was calling in to the studio. Everyone else laughed.
Then Bobs requested a copy of the album and Tanya looked it up on her iPhone.
Because "On A Cloud" is the jam.
You have to check these guys out. I'd toss an mp3 up here, but that wouldn't be kosher since I rep them for licensing via my job at Sugaroo!, so you'll have to do the legwork yourself - I can assure you an iTunes download or (egad!) buying the physical product (their brand-new album Abundance) is totally worth it. These guys are the new wave of old school master craftsmen of hip-hop and they're gearing up for a well-earned breakthrough, I hope -
PPP MySpace: Go to "On A Cloud" feat Karma first. You'll thank me.
(Yeah, that one guy totally looks like a baby Tupac.)
It made me think about the redonkulous amount of music that passes through my ears on a daily basis. Some of it is meh, for sure, and some is good, but there are some really, really stellar artists that I have the utter privilege to pimp out on a daily basis. I should probably be turning you on to these every now and then.
Here be a few nuggets for now...
Drumroll...
NEKO CASE
Duh.
Beginning her ascent from the alt-country ghetto into the greater consciousness with her last release Fox Confessor Brings The Flood, Neko Case is finally allowed to own the stage (in the case of Los Angeles in June - the Greek Theatre!) that is so rightfully hers on Middle Cyclone, her 6th solo album after leaving the New Pornographers. Her voice is a singular powerhouse, a bellow both wild and willfully wrangled that simultaneously hits below the belt and forces you to fall in love with her. If you're not a fan of "alt-country" or "country," give Neko a chance. Her music is a complete and utter knockout, and her voice a weapon of mass destruction.
Listen to "People Got A Lotta Nerve" from Middle Cyclone. Then go buy it. If you haven't already.
(And despite all of you naysayers that don't like it for whatever tightassed reason, I think the cover art for this album is badassedy delicious. That woman is not just a firecracker, she's one of those giant wads of dynamite tucked under Wile E. Coyote's armpit).
MIKEY & THE GYPSYS
The Swedish pop train will not be stopped.
You don't know them, and you probably won't hear about them for a while, because a) they're in Sweden, and b) they haven't yet released an album stateside...or in Sweden. But they're about to...and it will be a pitch-perfect piece of expertly crafted power pop, heavy on the infectious choruses and sunbright guitars.
Mikey & the Gypsys MySpace: Go straight to "Echoes" and "Monday." It's like snorting pixie stix while doing a keg stand.
(Since the upcoming album - Enormous Shows Combined is not yet available in full, head over and download the Caravan EP from iTunes to get your sweet Swede on.)
SHAWN LEE
Multi-instrumentalist genius-man
This man works harder than Manny Ramirez or any of those other pro sports crybabies, that I can assure you. He is a wizard of the recording studio, the jammiest of jammers, funkmaster fresh, soul brotha #1, commandeer of a mental musical army. In Shawn Lee Hits The Hits, he Shawnicized everything from Eve to Outkast to Gorillaz to Amy Winehouse. And on his newest, Soul In The Hole, he Shawnicizes the shit outta...wait for it...soul. Guest vocalists galore, spot-on production, total jams.
Preview & buy Soul In The Hole on the Ubiquity Records site - same label as PPP, these guys are clearly purveyors of taste. Start w/ "Jigsaw," feat Nicole Willis, and march on from there.
(When you're done foaming over Soul In The Hole, venture over to iTunes and download Shawn Lee feat. Nino Moschella - "Kiss The Sky" - you can thank me later. Or in a comment or something.)
Now I need to go feed my Eddie Cat Halen so he stops chewing on my leg.
"Dude, PPP is amazing. We rep them for licensing. They. Are. Awesome."
Then I picked up my laptop, opened my iTunes, and started playing PPP's "On A Cloud," which is just a massively dope, catchy shoop-a-doop hip-hop ride to funkytown. And then I held up my laptop and pushed the Talk button again, and danced around in the control room, swangin' my hips with my laptop in the air. Bobs bobbed his head; Rockbarry couldn't hear or see me because he was calling in to the studio. Everyone else laughed.
Then Bobs requested a copy of the album and Tanya looked it up on her iPhone.
Because "On A Cloud" is the jam.
You have to check these guys out. I'd toss an mp3 up here, but that wouldn't be kosher since I rep them for licensing via my job at Sugaroo!, so you'll have to do the legwork yourself - I can assure you an iTunes download or (egad!) buying the physical product (their brand-new album Abundance) is totally worth it. These guys are the new wave of old school master craftsmen of hip-hop and they're gearing up for a well-earned breakthrough, I hope -
PPP MySpace: Go to "On A Cloud" feat Karma first. You'll thank me.
(Yeah, that one guy totally looks like a baby Tupac.)
It made me think about the redonkulous amount of music that passes through my ears on a daily basis. Some of it is meh, for sure, and some is good, but there are some really, really stellar artists that I have the utter privilege to pimp out on a daily basis. I should probably be turning you on to these every now and then.
Here be a few nuggets for now...
Drumroll...
NEKO CASE
Duh.
Beginning her ascent from the alt-country ghetto into the greater consciousness with her last release Fox Confessor Brings The Flood, Neko Case is finally allowed to own the stage (in the case of Los Angeles in June - the Greek Theatre!) that is so rightfully hers on Middle Cyclone, her 6th solo album after leaving the New Pornographers. Her voice is a singular powerhouse, a bellow both wild and willfully wrangled that simultaneously hits below the belt and forces you to fall in love with her. If you're not a fan of "alt-country" or "country," give Neko a chance. Her music is a complete and utter knockout, and her voice a weapon of mass destruction.
Listen to "People Got A Lotta Nerve" from Middle Cyclone. Then go buy it. If you haven't already.
(And despite all of you naysayers that don't like it for whatever tightassed reason, I think the cover art for this album is badassedy delicious. That woman is not just a firecracker, she's one of those giant wads of dynamite tucked under Wile E. Coyote's armpit).
MIKEY & THE GYPSYS
The Swedish pop train will not be stopped.
You don't know them, and you probably won't hear about them for a while, because a) they're in Sweden, and b) they haven't yet released an album stateside...or in Sweden. But they're about to...and it will be a pitch-perfect piece of expertly crafted power pop, heavy on the infectious choruses and sunbright guitars.
Mikey & the Gypsys MySpace: Go straight to "Echoes" and "Monday." It's like snorting pixie stix while doing a keg stand.
(Since the upcoming album - Enormous Shows Combined is not yet available in full, head over and download the Caravan EP from iTunes to get your sweet Swede on.)
SHAWN LEE
Multi-instrumentalist genius-man
This man works harder than Manny Ramirez or any of those other pro sports crybabies, that I can assure you. He is a wizard of the recording studio, the jammiest of jammers, funkmaster fresh, soul brotha #1, commandeer of a mental musical army. In Shawn Lee Hits The Hits, he Shawnicized everything from Eve to Outkast to Gorillaz to Amy Winehouse. And on his newest, Soul In The Hole, he Shawnicizes the shit outta...wait for it...soul. Guest vocalists galore, spot-on production, total jams.
Preview & buy Soul In The Hole on the Ubiquity Records site - same label as PPP, these guys are clearly purveyors of taste. Start w/ "Jigsaw," feat Nicole Willis, and march on from there.
(When you're done foaming over Soul In The Hole, venture over to iTunes and download Shawn Lee feat. Nino Moschella - "Kiss The Sky" - you can thank me later. Or in a comment or something.)
Now I need to go feed my Eddie Cat Halen so he stops chewing on my leg.
Monday, February 16, 2009
40-LOVE
The last 24 hours have been a hearty bounce on the musical equivalent of the sweet spot on a tennis racket..
HELL YES: 33 1/3
Considering I've already blasted this across the internets, it's now old news, but for the sheer joy of it - my proposal for Continuum's 33 1/3 series (http://www.33third.blogspot.com/) on Sleater-Kinney's One Beat has been moved forward onto the shortlist. HOLY HELL YES!!!
I WANT TO WRITE THIS BOOK. I really rolled it around in my head for quite some time before sending in the proposal. Hell, I even suggested in my proposal that I probably wanted to write this book after my virgin listen of One Beat. It's an album that has personal meaning to me, but I don't propose to worship drooling at its little indie altar...I see a real story behind its making, it's place in and the demise of the riot grrl canon, and numerous other things I'd be jinxing myself to vomit into the blogosphere. I would totally rock the fuck out of this book for you, friends, acquaintances, and general public, even if you've never heard a single Sleater-Kinney song in your some-odd decades on this earth.
In fact - let's remedy that right now. Courtesy the official Sleater-Kinney website (both from One Beat, of course):
One Beat.mp3
Oh!.mp3
WILDBIRDS & PEACEDRUMS
Dude. Dude. Dude. Thanks to Rachel from Woodwork for turning me on to this...
Avant-garde percussive blues opera that is neither a) as hippie-dippie as the band name might make you think nor b) as pretentious as my description might make you think. Caught their set at Amoeba tonight* and it was raucous and beautiful at once. Sister has some freaky/gorgeous pipes, brother can bang some serious textures out of those drums (reminding me a bit of when Liam Finn goes all shit-nuts on the drums and then loops them and then goes even more shit-nuts on them, but this guy does it without even having to loop them).
Maybe I shouldn't refer to them as "sister" and "brother," now that I think of it, a'cause they're married and all. Neither here nor there.
Instead of my getting all tangential, just check them out for yerself:
*RE: Amoeba - I was there to check out the band, but also to pick up the new Dan Auerbach and Bon Iver offerings. I saw You Are The Quarry on sale, as well, so I thought I'd add it to my Moz arsenal, considering we've been dancing in the same air at the Sunset Marquis as of late...le sigh...
Ok, back to the story. So I go to the check out counter and present the dude with my selections. He starts to ring them up and then I look at them: Morrissey....Bon Iver...Dan Auerbach...and I feel compelled to blurt out:
"OH. Well, it's a rainy day. Don't think I'm going to like, go home and put these on and cry and stuff. Ok?"
Counter dude: "Sure. Ok."
I pay for my saddoe music and when I grab it at the other end of the counter, Counter Dude fires off a sly little zinger:
"Enjoy your crying."
Nice.
SCOTT WALKER, WHERE YOU BEEN, YO?
Completing the triad is my newfound obsession with Scott Walker. I've heard of him, but I've never really listened, until Mo invited me to join her at Bronson's last night for Rock Music Movie Night. Now I need mo' Walker.
Bronson screened the Scott Walker doc 30 Century Man to a small room of friends/music nerds, and it was pretty special. The doc is heavy on the music, necessary since Ohioan Walker became a British recluse of sorts over the past few...decades...and his music has generally not been released in the US (aside from imports, some of which I found tonight at Amoeba).
Now, homeboy is not for everyone. But if you have a yen for art rock, Eno, Bowie, Antony & the Johnsons, and the freakier side of Radiohead, you'll find something here to latch onto. Walker's voice is a wounded spectre against a backdrop of haunted (art)house creaks, booms, and rattles and his lyrics are absolute mysteries (even exec producer Bowie laughs at one point during the doc at how ludicrous some of it is).
The doc opens next Friday, Feb. 27th for a weeklong run at Landmark's NuArt Theatre, and I highly recommend you set aside a few bucks and 90 minutes to check it out if you consider yourself any music fan whatsoever. There's also a par-tay/tribute show next Wed. at Bordello feat. the ubiquitous John Doe, Ann Magnuson, & a slew of others. You should go there, too.
In the meantime, here's the trailer. Dig:
HELL YES: 33 1/3
Considering I've already blasted this across the internets, it's now old news, but for the sheer joy of it - my proposal for Continuum's 33 1/3 series (http://www.33third.blogspot.com/) on Sleater-Kinney's One Beat has been moved forward onto the shortlist. HOLY HELL YES!!!
I WANT TO WRITE THIS BOOK. I really rolled it around in my head for quite some time before sending in the proposal. Hell, I even suggested in my proposal that I probably wanted to write this book after my virgin listen of One Beat. It's an album that has personal meaning to me, but I don't propose to worship drooling at its little indie altar...I see a real story behind its making, it's place in and the demise of the riot grrl canon, and numerous other things I'd be jinxing myself to vomit into the blogosphere. I would totally rock the fuck out of this book for you, friends, acquaintances, and general public, even if you've never heard a single Sleater-Kinney song in your some-odd decades on this earth.
In fact - let's remedy that right now. Courtesy the official Sleater-Kinney website (both from One Beat, of course):
One Beat.mp3
Oh!.mp3
WILDBIRDS & PEACEDRUMS
Dude. Dude. Dude. Thanks to Rachel from Woodwork for turning me on to this...
Avant-garde percussive blues opera that is neither a) as hippie-dippie as the band name might make you think nor b) as pretentious as my description might make you think. Caught their set at Amoeba tonight* and it was raucous and beautiful at once. Sister has some freaky/gorgeous pipes, brother can bang some serious textures out of those drums (reminding me a bit of when Liam Finn goes all shit-nuts on the drums and then loops them and then goes even more shit-nuts on them, but this guy does it without even having to loop them).
Maybe I shouldn't refer to them as "sister" and "brother," now that I think of it, a'cause they're married and all. Neither here nor there.
Instead of my getting all tangential, just check them out for yerself:
*RE: Amoeba - I was there to check out the band, but also to pick up the new Dan Auerbach and Bon Iver offerings. I saw You Are The Quarry on sale, as well, so I thought I'd add it to my Moz arsenal, considering we've been dancing in the same air at the Sunset Marquis as of late...le sigh...
Ok, back to the story. So I go to the check out counter and present the dude with my selections. He starts to ring them up and then I look at them: Morrissey....Bon Iver...Dan Auerbach...and I feel compelled to blurt out:
"OH. Well, it's a rainy day. Don't think I'm going to like, go home and put these on and cry and stuff. Ok?"
Counter dude: "Sure. Ok."
I pay for my saddoe music and when I grab it at the other end of the counter, Counter Dude fires off a sly little zinger:
"Enjoy your crying."
Nice.
SCOTT WALKER, WHERE YOU BEEN, YO?
Completing the triad is my newfound obsession with Scott Walker. I've heard of him, but I've never really listened, until Mo invited me to join her at Bronson's last night for Rock Music Movie Night. Now I need mo' Walker.
Bronson screened the Scott Walker doc 30 Century Man to a small room of friends/music nerds, and it was pretty special. The doc is heavy on the music, necessary since Ohioan Walker became a British recluse of sorts over the past few...decades...and his music has generally not been released in the US (aside from imports, some of which I found tonight at Amoeba).
Now, homeboy is not for everyone. But if you have a yen for art rock, Eno, Bowie, Antony & the Johnsons, and the freakier side of Radiohead, you'll find something here to latch onto. Walker's voice is a wounded spectre against a backdrop of haunted (art)house creaks, booms, and rattles and his lyrics are absolute mysteries (even exec producer Bowie laughs at one point during the doc at how ludicrous some of it is).
The doc opens next Friday, Feb. 27th for a weeklong run at Landmark's NuArt Theatre, and I highly recommend you set aside a few bucks and 90 minutes to check it out if you consider yourself any music fan whatsoever. There's also a par-tay/tribute show next Wed. at Bordello feat. the ubiquitous John Doe, Ann Magnuson, & a slew of others. You should go there, too.
In the meantime, here's the trailer. Dig:
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