Ray Davies, Supper Club, NYC, November 28, 2005

2005-12-04T21:40:00.000-08:00

Ray Davies, Supper Club, NYC, November 28, 2005
by Jason Gross

Oh Ray... even after all these years, disappearances, failed comebacks, family and band spats, you are still the consummate entertainer when you want to be. Just like Macca and Mick, you can even put out a respectable record now but who would have thought that we'd see you do a small club show and manage to wow us all again?

Granted that you're my mom's age by now and many of the crowd looked even older than her or you, but you looked so damn youthful and sprightly- did Dick Clarke lead you to some Faustian pact to forestall aging? And yes, you did that Yo La Tengo gig not too long ago but now you actually have a new record to celebrate. And no, I can't imagine any of the '90's Brit-pop without your tunes as a cornerstone or know anyone else who's been covered by David Bowie, Van Halen, the Raincoats, the Pretenders, the Jam, Herman's Hermits, Blur, Big Star and the Fall.

And don't you know how to play us like a book? I mean, starting off with a B-side that's become a concert staple and an anthem for independence and individuality like "I'm Not Like Everybody Else"? Did you know how loudly we'd be singing along with the chorus, finding not just ourselves there but also bolstering your position as a perennial outsider in the biz? My god man, you had us by that first song.

We expected some tunes from your recent EP, "Thanksgiving Day" and you had them in there but they didn't sound bad and didn't break the momentum of the oldies much. But such an English chap like you celebrating a Yank holiday? How perverse!

And no opening act, just two hours of you, plus your new trio- a good old guitar/bass/drums line-up like your old band. And while these youngsters weren't the Kinks (though guitarist Mark Jones did shred nicely), what are the Kinks anymore or are they anymore? There would be you, your brother Dave plus... a rhythm section you put together. We know you're the lead man, the brains and such but you heard people should out for your errant sibling 'cause he's the heart of the band.

But no matter 'cause you know how to bring a house down yourself. You could have just run through the hits that the radio keeps spewing out but after the opener, you kept stepping up with these wonderful little gifts to us real, old fans like a... set of songs all from the "Village Green" album! Yes, we did want to hear "Picture Book" and not just because of the recent commercial but the nice readings of "Johnny Thunder" (who you called your hero) and the touching "Animal Farm" more than made up for it. Or chestnuts from the very cult album "Muswell Hillbillies" like "20th Century Man" and "Oklahoma USA." And wasn't it lovely to hear you dig up other little favorites like "Dead End Street" (a natural sing-a-long) and "Tired of Waiting For You" (one of your most beautiful songs)?

And how you teased us with "You Really Got Me," telling stories about the song (how a record exec thought Dave's guitar sounded like a barking dog) and then doing a lounge version before roaring into the real thing... And leaving "Lola" for the inevitable encore where you know that all of us were going to shout along with you... Or how you stopped to let us all sing the verses to "Sunny Afternoon"... Or how you waited to the end to unfurl your most heart-warming tunes like "Days" and "Waterloo Sunset"... Or the Harry Belafonte "Banana Boat" call-and-response you had us do on "All Day and All of the Night"... And yes, you knew how to get our sympathy with a touching observation about the biz: "(We) couldn't get a deal in the beginning... (it's the) same now!"

But ending off with "Low Budget"? Yeah, that was your late '70's comeback and it's always good to tie it to hard times but it ain't up to your other classics or even some of your new tunes. But all's forgiven- you nicked us for sixty-five bucks and we got every penny's worth out of you for it. And right back at ya- we thank for the days...

All the Pretty Horses/ September 23, 2005/ The Uptown Bar/ Minneapolis, MN

2005-09-25T01:10:00.000-07:00

(I just got back from seeing Earth, Gang Gang Dance and Pita at the Empty Bottle here in Chicago. It was kinda boring. I kinda wish I'd seen this band instead-- Amy)

Reviewed by Pat Feghali

There are bands that are meant to be listened to. And then there are bands that are meant to be seen. Often this is because they have amazing stage shows. It can also be because they are hot. Sometimes, very rarely, these things come together to form what may be called the perfect live band. Minneapolis group All the Pretty Horses might just be one of those bands.

The group is fronted by the magnetic and fabulously attractive singer and guitarist Venus, who looks like an Amazon and sounds like an American David Bowie. What else could you ask for? Add to that smoke machines, strobe lights, an amazing drummer and bass player, and two hot dancers, and you’ve got something. I’m not really sure what it is. But it sure as hell is amazing.

Not to gush or anything, but ATPH are the best live band I’ve seen in a long time. They have a self-described “dark glam” sound, and they just won a Minnesota Music award for best hard rock band. Like you might guess, their sound is somewhere between metal, ‘70s glam, and good old shit-kicking rock. And yet, despite Venus’s great voice, I don’t really feel the need to get a CD. No, it’s not because I plan to steal the music online, but because I’d much rather watch them, or at least look at them.

It’s not every day that you (well, I) get to watch five women (or at least five people with breasts) make hard rock music. It’s also not every day that you (or I) get to watch five people with breasts, two of whom are not actually playing music but are just there to dance and add to the general atmosphere, wear thigh-high boots and ripped fishnets and be totally into the performance they are giving. It’s not every day that I get to be around straight boys who are totally in love with the girl on stage who just happened to be born a boy. And since the band is going on hiatus in January when drummer extraordinaire Jen Deen joins some sort of theater production, the chance to witness such things will become even less frequent. But, don’t worry, there’s good news. I have it on good authority that the DVD Venus of Mars , about Venus’s life as a transgender rock star, is highly enjoyable, if a little hard to find.

It’s good to know that somewhere, somehow, there are still bands that are using rock and roll as a way to fuck with the way that people think. It’s good to know that there is still a place, among all the weepy emo kids and the tie-wearing brit pop boys, for people who can just say “this is who I am and I don’t care if you can’t handle it.” Venus is one of those people. And, just between us, she is my new personal hero. Maybe next time I see them I’ll be brave enough to talk to her.

Death Cab For Cutie, The Decemberists, Stars / August 18, 2005 / Central Park Summerstage

2005-08-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

It’s official: I am an indie-yuppie. Last week, I bought a dining room table and matching chairs at Ikea. I also received my first paycheck from my first steady job. I have business cards, my own desk, my own set of office keys, even interns. I have a deck and a back yard. I have a bathtub with Jacuzzi jets in it. There is a copy of Paste magazine in my living room. Guess who’s on the cover? Death Cab for Cutie.

As I wrote in the Voice a little while ago, this concert in Central Park last Thursday, for a girl like me, was the equivalent of the Backstreet Boys and ‘NSYNC doing a show together in 1998. Total teenage hormone rage-a-thon as my two favorite cuddly lovesick doughboys sang their pretty little songs just for me (and all the other I-Ys eating $5 veggie burgers.) The weather was PERFECT—not too hot, clear skies, slight breeze, sun setting behind the skyscrapers. The VIP area was far from crowded, offering ideal side-stage viewing. I stood next to Lyor Cohen, close enough to steal his Blackberry. He didn’t look pleased—perhaps he doesn’t smell a hit from his latest acquisition?

The new Death Cab album could go either way, in my opinion. “Different Names for the Same Thing” or “Crooked Teeth” could be smashes if publicized with gusto, or the record could become “lifestyle” music like Coldplay or Norah Jones. Or nobody cares and Death Cab will go limping back to Barsuk. Maybe it all depends on the next season of The O.C. (September 8! Can’t wait!) They didn’t play very many Plans songs last night, not even the two I really wanted to hear (“Different Names” and “Marching Bands of Manhattan”—how could they NOT play that one in this setting? Huh?) They did do “Soul Meets Body,” a pretty lousy choice for a first single if you ask me, but I guess they’re going for that adult-contemporary moohla right now.

Ben Gibbard has packed on quite a bit of weight and has a terrible haircut (or “non-haircut” as Ryan put it), which certainly hampers his heartthrobitude. But I’m always happy to see doughy boys and girls succeed—fuck 50 Cent body fascism! Yay Magic Numbers! The equally doughy bass player has had an equally terrible haircut for as long as I’ve been following the band, and I’ve really got to hand it to the guy for his persistence. At certain points during the set, his hair would start sticking up in strange places, making him look even more awkward. He was also wearing a mysterious black, rectangular object attached to his belt, which may or may not have been a cell phone or beeper. I’ve often wondered this: why do musicians wear their cell phones on stage? Are you really going to take a call while you’re performing?

Stars were eh. I like them, especially because they have a cute, voluptuous girl named Amy in the band. But I’ve never been particularly impressed with their live act.

The Decemberists were great, duh, playing “Odalisque,” which I’ve never heard live before. They didn’t do “Chimbley Sweep” and its attendant get-the-crowd-crouching-on-the-floor move, but they did “Mariner’s Revenge,” of course, and the audience was definitely feeling the scream-like-you’re-being-swallowed-by-a-whale part. At the end, Colin mounted the drummer’s back and rode him while playing a guitar solo. Way to fuck with those rawk masculinity tropes, guys.

For Death Cab’s encore, they brought out all of the Decemberists for a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” Colin and Ben traded verses and everybody shouted the chorus and things got quite rollicking. But you probably already read about that on some other blog already.

Antony and the Johnsons/ Town Hall/July 28, 2005

2005-07-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

caryn: Why, Amy Phillips, are people questioning the fate of this spazzy site? Tell the people.
amy: because us girls have gone and got ourselves jobby-jobs
caryn: True that. Amy, you are moving on Monday to Chicago to become the news editor at Pitchfork. Is that accurate?
amy: indeed it is. and you can fact-check that!
amy: and caryn, you are staying right here in nyc, and you have already become arts and entertainment editor at the associated motherfuckin press???
caryn: Yes, it also proven that I have been hired by that venerable newsgathering organization to be the arts and entertainment editor of a new line of content aimed at the kids.
amy: damn
amy: we run this writing game!
caryn: I am now The Man and you are now Da Boy.
amy: but we are both competing for the kiddies' attention
caryn: I wanted to auction off MITM to the lad or lassie who wrote us the best letter convincing us that they would care for our baby. I wanted to go out with a bang. But you boged. Why?
amy: because i'm not sure i want to sell this baby to the black market just yet.
amy: i might want to keep it alive, if only via a feeding tube and IV
caryn: Do you really think that you'll post from Chicago?
amy: yes, i really do think
amy: we can both see the same band play and then compare notes on their shows in the different cities!
caryn: It's possible that we could change the format of the blog and make it just our musical ramblings rather than show reviews. But then it will be like so many other blogs. Perhaps we could make it about the various songs we sing to ourselves in the shower.
amy: pearl jam's "alive" all the way, baby
amy: but i still love writing about live music
amy: and i probably won't get much of a chance to do that as news bitch
caryn: Ok, so MITM is *not* dead. Just in a coma for a while. So people shouldn't delink us?
amy: most definitely not!
amy: they should also check the pitchfork news section every day. and, uh, their local paper?
caryn: Actually, the AP project will also consist of a hosted web site, so I will link to it when it goes live. Wow, I feel like it's 1999 when I write "go live."
amy: of course, it will never be as "live" as more in the monitor
caryn: But, it's safe to say that people will not get a C+A IM live review such as the one that we're about to offer for a long, long, loooong time. Correct?
amy: correct-- unless we end up at the same CMJ shows, which could happen
caryn: And isn't it appropriate that this review is of a show filled with the wan longing of a schoolboy who forgot his lunchpail, yes?
amy: indeed it is
amy: i'd say the wan longing was a bit more intense than that though
amy: more like that of a desert missing the rain
caryn: hahahahahah.
caryn: We're speaking, of course, of Antony and the Johnsons LIVE at town hall last night.
amy: i personally was shocked, shocked! at how FUNNY antony was. were you?
caryn: No. Tragedy + comedy = DRAMA.
amy: yea, verily. last night was all about drama
amy: girls dressing up as boys, boys dressing up as girls
caryn: What kind of schmata was he wearing? Huh? It was like something on special at Lane Bryant (not that there's anything wrong with that...)
amy: maybe it was a lane bryant special in a former life, but it had been thoroughly mutilated.
caryn: The underneath stuff was Lane Bryant, the over wrap was David Bowie.
amy: i dunno, i was feeling more of a stevie nicks vibe from it
amy: (for those playing along at home, it was a gauzy, ripped-up black shawl)
caryn: Yeah, that too.
caryn: Is that his real hair or a wig?
amy: i was going to ask you that!
amy: it looked like a wig
caryn: From our vantage point behind his head, it was clear that a random chunk was just missing from the back. I think it was a wig.
amy: he looks a lot like robert smith
caryn: Same shoulders!
amy: his movements at the piano reminded me a lot of stevie wonder
amy: stevie wonder meets a seal wiggling across an iceberg
caryn: Someone at work asked if he speaks in falsetto (or, to mine a Pavement song: What about the voice of Antony? How did it get so high? I wonder if he speaks like an ordinary guy?)
amy: he does speak like an ordinary guy
caryn: I would say he speaks like an ordinary guy...sort of.
amy: that was kind of disconcerting, actually
amy: i was expecting his speaking voice to be more... flowery
caryn: Is it even possible to describe his singing voice? When you find the right words, perhaps then you must die from the effort. Let's describe his voice using only food as descriptors.
caryn: Butterscotch.
amy: black forest cake
caryn: anise.
amy: what's that?
caryn: a licorice-like spice.
amy: i learned something new today
caryn: truffle oil.
caryn: And truffles.
amy: you know what? his body language is kind of like a pig nudging its snout through the forest looking for truffles
caryn: ganache
amy: what's ganache? pardon my food ignorance
caryn: a rich mixture of chocolate and cream often used on cakes. Now that we both have jobs, we should go out to eat more and I can school you. Oh yeah, you're moving AWAY on monday.
amy: yeah, i'm going to have to find someone new to be my restaurant top!
caryn: Charoset.
amy: hahaha
amy: good one
amy: so i guess we could conclude that antony's voice is rich, decadent, expensive, slightly sickening?
caryn: yeah, that about does it. Seemed like the place was sold out. Or at least very full.
amy: yeah, i was surprised. i didn't know antony had that many fans
caryn: What did you think of the whistle routine?
amy: i loved it. but i think there was some recorded whistling being piped in.
caryn: I think the whistling was piped in, too.
amy: same with the humming
caryn: yeah.
amy: i was also surprised that there weren't any special guests!
caryn: I think Lou Reed was in the house although I didn't see him; when A played that Lou Reed song he made a dedication that seemed to be to be him.
caryn: What was your favorite song?
amy: for today i am a boy
amy: that's my favorite song on the record, too
amy: you?
caryn: I liked when he sang about being a cavewoman. he really looks like a cavewoman.
amy: oh yeah, he definitely does. and the bassist looks like a caveman.
caryn: What song would you most want Antony to cover?
caryn: I am voting for Girlfriend in a Coma.
amy: hmm. something by pj harvey
amy: i want him to do "oh my lover"
amy: gf in a coma would be cool too
caryn: Hmmm, both intriguing choices.
caryn: Anything else you'd like to say about the show before we sign off?
amy: those cocorosie girls are hot stuff
caryn: As I stated whilst watching them, if they were my age, when we were their age, they totally would have been Deadheads. I am so pleased to see how the culture has moved forward.
amy: and i said, i think they ARE deadheads. the one girl had a big silver pot leaf necklace!
caryn: But she was wearing a Tupac t-shirt.
amy: what, deadheads can't like tupac?
amy: you should see the outfits they're wearing in the album art
amy: tie-dye fantasia
caryn: the deadheads of my era literally only listened to the dead. and maybe Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. It was pathetic.
amy: well i guess culture has moved forward then
caryn: Amy, as I prepare to sign off, let me say this so that it may be put into public record: you are the sister that I've never had and your brain pleases me to no end. I will miss you.
amy: aww shucks caryn. i will miss you too, and you are also the sister i never had.
amy: but i have the feeling that our paths will cross again.
caryn: Cue Green Day's "Time of Your Life." Fade out.

Lady Sovereign / Knitting Factory / July 14, 2005

2005-07-14T03:43:00.000-07:00

Before she went all family-friendly (bootleg porno aside), Eve used to call herself a “pitbull in a skirt.” Lady Sovereign don’t wear no fookin skirts (or at least I can’t picture her in one), but my god, is she ever a pitbull. She’s tiny, cute and FIERCE. This girl could kick my ass in her sleep. Then I’d thank her and ask for another beatdown, because that is how much I am in love with her right now.

This was basically the M.I.A. Knit show all over again (massive blogga/writa posse, endless Catchdubs DJ set while we got all sweaty waiting, technical difficulties, truncated set), except Louise has more stage presence in her eyebrows than Maya has in her whole body. As Jessica wrote, in a much more brilliant take on her Chicago show than I could ever write about this one, here is a girl who’s spent her whole life as one of the guys, so she knows how to be ON even when she isn’t feeling it (lord knows I can relate). And boy was she not feeling it tonight. Jazzbo says that she was so sick/hungover this afternoon that she totally fucked up an MTV interview. On stage, she held her stomach, blamed McDonald’s, and kept threatening to vomit on the first row, in between apologies for “not jumping around and stuff.”

I’m sure conventional wisdom will say that this show was terrible because she was sick and her CD player kept skipping and she kept apologizing. I loved every second of it.

She wore a Sex Pistols t-shirt and pants so baggy they were literally falling off her ass, so she spent a good amount of her set with one hand grabbing the crotch. She had her hair in that trademark side ponytail which I hope starts a trend, because I would really like to start rocking that look and not get laughed at. She also had her keys on a chain around her neck. That is hardcore. By the way, photos like this are quite deceiving. Lady Sov is not glamorous or passive. She has crooked teeth and furry eyebrows and freckles and she will fuck you up, especially if you are Jentina or her friend who gave her a fat lip.

Her face is rubbery and naturally comedic like Jim Carrey’s. She could just roll her eyes or purse her lips and I would start laughing. Her voice is also rubbery and comedic—when she starts talking to herself I, like, die. She did a song that was a total Oi! Punk rager. She did “Random” and “Ch-Ching.” She freestyled over “Hollaback Girl.” It was awesome.

If you haven’t heard her new single “9 to 5”, go download it at Lemon-Red RIGHT FUCKING NOW. I hate to say this but it might just be better than the Dolly Parton song. Which is really saying something.

FYI: I’m headed to my soon-to-be home for my soon-to-be employer’s fantabulous rock-a-thon this weekend. Expect mad gossip, like what Colin Meloy smells like, when I get back.

Harry and the Potters / Donnell Center, New York Public Library / July 7, 2005

2005-07-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I believe in God. Like when God says, “You know what Amy really needs in her life right now? A concert by a Harry Potter tribute band that takes place in the basement auditorium of the New York Public Library on 53^rd street.” Wow, God. You were so right. I did need that.

Harry and the Potters are two brothers from Boston who look/dress/act like what would happen if Harry accepted Calvin Johnson as his Lord and Savior. Their music is K Records love punk circa 1993: sloppy Farfisa; drum machine; garage fuzz guitar; simple, straightforward, silly lyrics. Sample songs: “Voldemort Can’t Stop the Rock” (“this song is about standing up to The Man!”), “Wizard Chess,” “Save Ginny Weasley.”

The place was packed. The audience was half parents with young children and half teenage/twentysomething indie kids (mostly female). Many girls sported homemade HP t-shirts. Punk fucking rock. Everyone was giddy. I haven’t heard that much squealing since R. Kelly walked onstage at the Best of Both Worlds tour.

The Harrys were total pros. They lead sing-alongs. They climbed through the audience on the backs of chairs. They told perfectly timed jokes. (“This is a song about how I’m angry because I’m a teenager, and teenagers are always angry, and stuff keeps happening like my dead parents show up as ghosts in a cemetery in Bulgaria.”) They executed precisely synchronized windmills. They knew exactly when to collapse on the floor in mock passion/terror/overwhelming rockingness.

I have a massive friend-crush on these boys. I want to ride in their tour van (broom?) and discuss the intricacies of teen male psychology as it relates to Harry’s relationship with Cho Chang. I want them to read The Half-Blood Prince out loud to me next weekend. I want to geek out on Springsteen with Harry Year 7. I want to watch them rock libraries all over the world.

Annie / Hiro Ballroom / June 28, 2005

2005-06-29T00:21:00.000-07:00

amy: well, that sucked

caryn: Oh, Annie, Annie, Annie. Look what you've done for us.

amy: so where were you standing the whole time?

caryn: I was sitting in the reserved section. From now on, anytime I see a reserved sign anywhere I will simply sit there regardless of whether it is indeed reserved for me or not.

amy: could you see the guide vocals thing she had going on?

caryn: No, describe. I could tell there was some, uh, help.

amy: well, about halfway through, i noticed that she had something clipped onto her pants that looked like a cell phone

caryn: Uh huh.

amy: and i was like "well, that can't be a monitor for a cordless mic, because she's not using one"

caryn: Hmmmm

amy: so i asked daphne and she was like "that must be for guide vocals"

caryn: How would that work?

amy: and then, sure enough, you could see that there was a white wire going into her ear

amy: i don't know how it works exactly

caryn: Well, she was singing. Badly, I might add. During Me Plus One she was literally croaking.

amy: i think it was piping in vocals for her to sing along to

amy: the absolute worst part was during the verse in heartbeat thought

amy: she sang completely off-key

amy: and then she just skipped the second verse

caryn: Here's my take: harmless, bland, slightly bouncey, forgettable.

amy: do you like the record?

caryn: She's the anti-MIA. MIA's lyrics, her phrasing, her topics, her music are all so interesting and takes pop forward. Annie is just lite.

amy: wait, you DON’T like the record?

amy: annie's liteness is what's so great about her

amy: not everybody has to take music "forward"

caryn: It's fine. There's some decent tracks. It's just not that interesting to me. Liteness can be done really well. I'm thinking Olivia Newton John or ABBA. I just don't think Annie's all that.

amy: ah, ok. well i am in love with the record. she just sucked all the life out of it live

amy: she was so STIFF

caryn: So your main complaint is her performance then? What do you like about the record so much?

amy: i find it catchy and addicting in a way that i can listen to over and over again

caryn: A few of the songs are sticky for me, but not outrageously so.

amy: a lot of the songs are quite off-kilter and can be really burrowed into and dissected, but i love it like i love kylie or madonna

amy: like heartbeat is really weird if you think about it-- the way it starts so unexpectedly, that weird drop in the melody in the chorus

amy: (she managed to hit that note somehow)

caryn: There's more going on with those two, I think. And, I just think this year MIA has set the bar so high for pop that in comparison, Annie's just eh.

amy: i don't think you can compare them at all. how do you think she compares to kylie or madonna?

amy: i think m.i.a.'s closest comparison is missy elliott

caryn: Why not compare them? Are we comparing shade of skin or genre of music? This is pop!

caryn: And don't forget, Annie, uh, raps during Me Plus One.

amy: well why not compare them to nirvana or avril lavigne or 50 cent?

amy: i guess she sort of talks on that song

caryn: I will: all three of those artists are far more compelling than Annie. I used MIA because they are two break out artists in pop at the same time.

amy: what do you mean by "compelling"?

caryn: The music grabs me. The artists' steelo grabs me. They have carved out something new (at the time), exciting, signature and unforgetable.

amy: well, i don't think any of them were doing anything new. as for the other stuff, i find annie to be all those things.

caryn: Well, we'll have to agree to disagree I guess.

amy: ok

amy: now back to how bad that show was

caryn: But just know this: you're wrong.

amy: dude, pitchfork number one song of the year! of course i'm right!

caryn: Oh, so whatever Pitchfork says I have to swallow. They've really inserted that chip into you, huh?

amy: yup. speaking of which – I am so in love with the arcade fire right now.

amy: i forgot how much i love them until the dj before annie played them. now I am listening to the album again.

caryn: Fuck YEAH! It was the one time all night that I really, really wanted to dance!

amy: that proves how bad she was-- i left wanting to hear the music played BEFORE the show!

caryn: Ok, the show. So who's that guy who does her music? He kinda looks like a rockabilly Nordic hispter.

amy: i dunno, some producer guy. he worked on the album with her. he may or may not be her boyfriend

caryn: He had one of those faces that is clearly not American.

amy: i think the best part of the show was when he did the robot voice on "chewing gum"

caryn: Yeah. It was a bit mangled, which made it better.

amy: the mix was terrible. her vocals were really low. probably for good reason.

caryn: That room, the Hiro, is quite nice. A calming setting with Asian overtones and Bright Lights, Big City crackheads jumping up and down in the booths.

amy: oh i remember reading some guy talking about how it was racist

amy: let me find that

amy: http://iamjapan.blogspot.com/2005/04/beck-maritime-hotel.html: “We enter Hiro, and we get it. Asian themed. The stage is a horrible wooden facade, with a dragon spewing smoke from its eyes and mouth. Stereotypes abound. Innumberable paper lanterns. Nonsense Japanese script on the walls. Stereotypes abound. Red walls and faux-bamboo mezzanine. Stereotypes abound, albeit confused ones.”

caryn: I have a friend who is an asian activist and if she ever saw anyone dressed up in asian-wear during Haloween or whatever, she would go up to them and shout, "Someone else's culture is not your costume." I amused myself tonight by wondering if the characters on the walls actually could be translated into things such as, "Die Yuppie Scum" or "I'm with Dickhead."

amy: haha maybe. that would be amazing.

amy: also-- what was that thing she was hitting that made the mwah mwah sounds

caryn: Right, if was like an electric cowbells that she hit ever lackadasically and without much rthym.

amy: it was pretty silly

amy: oh and her shirt! good god that was awful

amy: it was half truckstop ho half my grandma

caryn: Now Amy, everyone can't have a cute Decemberists ringer tee like you. Leave the poor Nordic girl alone.

amy: yeah but you figure she'd have a stylist or something to be like "whoa... you are going out in public in that thing?"

caryn: That's what my mom says to me all the time!

amy: haha yeah that happened to me a lot in high school

caryn: On that note...

amy: in the words of that other annie, instead of treated we got tricked

Northern State / Rothko / June 22, 2005

2005-06-22T23:35:00.000-07:00

I guess it’s not cool to like Northern State anymore. Was it ever? Either way, I don’t care. I’ve loved these three Strong-Island-representin, Yes-quotin, baggy-pants-wearin ladies with all my heart since day one. They are smart and funny and catchy and silly and I want to be them when I grow up. I don’t give a shit if they are “bad” or “wack” rappers. As I’ve said time and time again: FUCK AUTHENTICITY. Can somebody make me a T-with that on it?

I love how Hesta Prynn, Sprout and Spero love each other so much. They are obviously BFF with the bracelets to prove it. Tonight they kept clasping hands and throwing arms around shoulders and big-up-ing one other, lolling drunkenly and happily across the stage. Spero is all about well-placed karate kicks. Hesta Prynn just might be the most beautiful woman alive. (Yeah yeah, I know, it’s a three-way tie with Phyllis from Out Hud and Mischa Barton.)

This show was a benefit for the Village Voice’s strike fund, so there was much “give it up for the union, y’all!” going on. Also, I do believe this is the first concert I’ve ever been to in which there were shout-outs to Robert Christgau, Chuck Eddy and Tricia Romano.

Modest Mouse, Camper Van Beethoven / Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA / June 18, 2005

2005-06-22T22:47:00.000-07:00

I have never seen a good Modest Mouse show. Have you? Allegedly, they happen from time to time. I remember Alex coming back from their show at Irving Plaza a few years ago and being extremely pumped. So when we saw them play a completely lackluster set in Philly last weekend, he was all like WTF happened to these guys? Why are there ten people on stage? Why do all the guitar parts sound watered-down? Why does nobody in this band seem to give two shits about the music they’re playing?

I don’t know, dude. I mean, I fucking love their records so much. “Float On” was my number one single of last year. But they even messed up that song. Whenever I imagine an ideal Modest Mouse concert in my mind, it climaxes with the whole place going crazy and everybody lock-stepping and fist-pumping to the “all right, already, we’ll all float on” part at the end, and the band extends it for five extra minutes of stepping and pumping. But nobody seemed enthusiastic when they dropped it in the middle of their set, least of all the band. I guess they’re probably sick of it by now.

One cool thing: Isaac Brock started almost every song by saying “This song is about…” and then just launching into it.

David Lowery—bitterest man alive? He kept calling the crowd “suburban pussies” and saying stuff like “have you people ever even listened to Modest Mouse before?” and “you people think you’re at a Coldplay show, don’t you?” What snobby indie bullshit. If playing for kids who only know “Float On” bothers you so much, why did you agree to do this tour? Not even “Take the Skinheads Bowling” could get the bad taste out of my mouth.

Check out my snarky review here, with an even snarkier headline courtesy of the Inquirer!

Architecture in Helsinki / Northsix / June 13, 2005

2005-06-13T23:59:00.000-07:00

Sufjan Stevens did not enjoy himself at this show. No sir. He stood there, arms crossed, stern look on his face, for Architecture in Helsinki’s entire set. Occasionally he would clap half-heartedly or snap his fingers next to his ears. He was wearing a Michigan baseball cap and had a pocketknife attached to his belt.

Why so glum, Sufjan? Is it because a bunch of goofy Australian flower children completely SCHOOLED you in the art of making a sprawling, epic indie rock record? Because their melodies are prettier and more buoyant than yours? Because they were having way too much fun up there on stage, bouncing around with silly grins on their faces? Because there is a white guy with dreadlocks in the band who plays the flute and the bongo drums? Because their Randy Newman cover was kinda weak? (You gotta admit, though, their take on “Love Is the Drug” was pretty rad.)

Sufjan, you didn’t even move during “Do the Whirlwind”! How is it humanly possible to stand still when that bassline is popping and locking, especially when there are unbelievably adorable girls in tank tops playing horn instruments over it?

I’m sorry you had such a crappy time. Architecture in Helsinki make me giddy. The last time I saw them play, it was in my friends’ basement. Now they’re selling out the Knitting Factory and Northsix! I’m so proud!

Cloud Cult / Sin-é / June 10, 2005

2005-06-12T01:26:00.000-07:00

I had never cried at a show before. But I was having one of those days when everything happens at once and you’re forced to make Big Life-Changing Decisions, so when Cloud Cult started playing a particularly delicate song, the floodgates opened. I must have looked like a total freak, this girl weeping quietly in the corner all by herself.

Maybe I was in such an unbalanced state that the music wouldn’t have mattered, like I could have been at the LCD Soundsystem show that same night and I would have started bawling during “Tribulations” or something. Cloud Cult’s set was quite joyful—there were cut-and-paste video projections and a guy painting a picture on a canvas on the stage. Everybody was all smiles, and Cult leader Craig Minowa kept talking about how excited he was to be in New York City for the first time. The band—Minowa, a drummer, a bassist, a cellist and a violinist—played their busy indie pop/hyper-prog briskly and messily. But I couldn’t keep the bad vibes away, especially when considering Minowa’s tragic backstory (you can read about it in this review I wrote of Cloud Cult’s latest album).

I really hope this band gets big. Or does an 8.3 on Pitchfork not mean anything anymore?

Mutek 6th Edition / Various venues, Montreal, CA / June 2 – 5, 2005

2005-06-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

Once again, Pitchfork has the exclusive on my “deep thoughts.” So here are some shallow thoughts on last weekend’s trek to Montreal for Mutek. Keep in mind that I know, like, nothing about electronic music.

For more Mutek musings, check out this, this and this.

Car ride there: The Juan Maclean album on repeat for hours.

Night 1:

Robert Henke does “Studies for Thunder” (read: stands behind his laptop while it makes thunder noises) in a room that is completely dark except for the streetlights coming through the windows. The audience is sitting or lying on gym mats on the floor. We bliss out for 20 minutes, then leave.

Day 2:

“New Markets in Electronic Music: The Space Between Peripheral and Emerging” panel

This guy says there is no electronic music underground in China. Audience member Mr. I’m-So-Cool-Because-I’m-A-White-Guy-From-Nebraska-Who-Lives-In-China disagrees vehemently and annoyingly. Uwe Schmidt (a.k.a. Atom Heart, Senor Coconut, etc.) is also on the panel. He is wearing a white suit, has a moustache and long, slicked back hair. He looks like the kind of guy who rolls down the window of his black Cadillac to shout naughty things at women walking down the street. I find him strangely attractive.

“Beyond Borders: Cultural Hybrids” panel

Uh oh. Mr. ISCBIAWGFNWLIC is on the panel this time. He keeps asking, “Am I Chinese? Am I Nebraskan?” We don’t know! We don’t care! Stop rubbing your head in that creepy way!

I ask four different people what, exactly, “tech-house” is. Nobody can tell me.

Night 2:

The only woman I see operating a computer on stage all weekend, Diane Labrosse, makes me cower in fear with loud crashing rumbling that sounds like a dinosaur stomping through the forest on its way to eat me.

Apparat’s set is best when it’s dirty and dark and overdramatic and gothy. It starts out super intense but gradually relaxes. At one point, everything stops because his computer crashes or something.

Pan/Tone is fond of low synth tones that go mwwah mwwah mwwah. I like his set because it is playful. I am told that it was “cheesy” and “bad” by someone who danced deliriously through the whole thing.

Day 3:

I lie on the floor on a gym mat listening to Tim Hecker’s set on headphones. I’m not sure if I’m asleep or not.

Night 3:

This is the only show that is taking place at an actual dance club. Everything else is in a converted museum. The sound at this club is incredible—really loud, bouncy and bassy, but still, you can have a heart-to-heart conversation with someone while standing directly in front of the speakers.

Ricardo Villalobos has “missed his flight” and therefore won’t be filling the headlining slot with his partner in Sense Club, Luciano. Whatever. I wouldn’t know Villalobos if he was playing video games in my living room right now.

Mathew Jonson makes me dance like a crazy person. I drink a gallon of water after his set.

I’m not really feeling Luciano, especially when his set, like Apparat’s, is derailed by a technical glitch. We go up to the balcony and sit down. My friend falls asleep as I am hypnotized by all the pretty lights.

Atom Heart, filling in for Villalobos, does a set that sounds like house mixed with dancehall. It makes me feel all jiggly.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8r Boi” comes on. I sing along and am filled with joy.

Night 4:

Omigod there’s a girl on stage and she’s singing! Suzana Rozkonsny’s breathy moans and hiccups sounded like Kleenex/LiLiPut meets Arthur Russell, and when coupled with SoulPhiction’s hard-driving beats, it was like having sex at zero gravity. Not that I’d know or anything.

The last performer I see at Mutek is far and away my favorite. Nego Mocambique plays a partytime electro-house set with lots of old soul samples and funk rhythms. He is also a very good dancer and seems very happy.

Car ride back: Juan Maclean on repeat AGAIN. The girl who sings “Dance with Me” is now my mortal enemy.

O Canada

2005-06-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, More in the Monitor, Riff Central, The Music Issue and The Original Soundtrack will pile into The Music Issue's car and head to Montreal for the Mutek festival, where we will transform into dancing robots for four days. Expect a wrap-up when we return.

The Decemberists / Warsaw / May 26, 2005

2005-05-28T03:12:00.000-07:00

I wish every concert I went to took place at Warsaw because A) it takes 10 minutes to walk there from my apartmen B) the sightlines and sound are always great and, most importantly, C) they serve pierogies.

The Decemberists took the stage in matching hats and vests that Chris Funk described as “Polish pimp meets Richie Sambora.” Their main set was very similar to the Irving Plaza show, but shorter. Petra Haden sang “Wuthering Heights,” they made us scream like we were being swallowed by a whale during “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” they interpolated “Hava Nagila” and some fake cock-rock posturing into “The Chimbley Sweep.” During the breakdown in the latter song, something happened that I’ve never experienced before in my life. Colin Meloy instructed the band and the audience to slowly get quieter and quieter and crouch down lower and lower, until we were all on the floor. I am not shitting you—every single person in the room was on their knees or their stomach. John Moen was sprawled across his drum kit, face down.

And then, in what was the single most ecstatic moment of any concert I have been to this year, we all simultaneously leapt to our feet, right when the band broke back into the chorus.

Jesus. You just can’t plan something like that.

For the encore, Colin did a solo acoustic version of “Shiny” and then… they played “The Tain.” All of it. Apparently, this epic five-part suite had been retired from live performance, but they brought it back because it was the last show on the tour. It didn’t sound quite as metal-riffic as it does on record, but it was still pretty sweet to see Colin sing that “cock in her kisser” line live. Tee hee.

Free For All Tour / BB King’s / May 17, 2005

2005-05-28T02:31:00.000-07:00

Reviewed by MH

This was an evening of mistakes. Mistake #1: Being in Times Square at BB King’s for the second time in two weeks. However, this time it’s for a (work-related) industrial show and Akiko and Donna are along for the night. Mistake #2 came quick. Within the first 10 minutes we start socializing with a couple in one of the leather booths surrounding the main floor of the club. At first things seem fine. Idle chitchat led to the woman talking in complete circles. Her spiel started with Elvis’s performance on the Ed Sullivan show and how that one moment changed everything and led to the “five genres of music we have today – rock, industrial, modern, hip hop, and modern.” (Yes, of the FIVE genres “modern” was mentioned twice.) She wanted to know why industrial music wasn’t played on the radio, why it wasn’t part of popular culture, and then started blaming me for not playing them on the radio. She also commented on how Blondie were the first to rap. I started thinking how I would much rather be in one of the Bile videos playing on the stage in front of me than in the hellish reality of that moment. There’s a few pokes and pinches under the table before we high tail it to the bar for a much needed drink.

Sheep On Drugs, two skinny I’m-pretty-but-tortured guys, a brunette and blonde, respectively, jump up on stage with pretty much just a CD. They sang moving lines like, “machine sex, its automatic” and “scarlet woman, laaady of the niiiight” over electro-clash. Akiko and I collectively agree that whoever’s into Fischerspooner should really be seeing these guys instead. The blonde came out in a bloody butcher’s coat, blood dripping down from his nose and mouth to the jacket. The blonde lost the butcher’s coat around the third song to sport a sleeveless black t-shirt instead. I don’t know what he was thinking, ‘cause he can really pull off bloody white clothes, which cannot be an easy feat. The other highlight was the live audience sample they included in their performance. I didn’t have to clap or yell at all! The desperate plea for merch purchases should also not be overlooked.

Pigface is a band that drummer Martin Atkins (PiL, Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, Killing Joke) has been running for years now. It’s always changing and this tour includes scary guys from KMFDM and My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, as well as Hanin Elias of Atari Teenage Riot, the saving grace of the night. The testosterone level was extreme and Hanin, who opened the set performing some of her solo songs, seemed like she really had a lot to contend with. She was one of four women who wasn’t dressed overtly sexually or dancing/prancing around erotically (actually, the girl from Voodou wasn’t either). The songs Hanin performed with Pigface were as intense and solid as her solo performances or days in ATR, but it seemed like the crowd (99.9% male) didn’t really prefer her vocals to say, En Esch with his fishnets, giant boots, soccer shorts and tuxedo shirt. She’d be screaming her ass off and some heads would bob, but it was gutteral growls that dudes wanted to beat each other to.

The third and biggest mistake is “Th’ Enigma.” This is a giant jigsaw puzzle of a tattooed man, colored all shades of blue and green, with horns surgically implanted in his skull. Yes, pieces of coral (it’s the thing most common to bone) were attached to his cranium so he could look like Lucifer. This is also the same guy who was a part of the Jim Rose Circus, was on the X-Files, and is here tonight as a member of Pigface, playing keyboards, guitar, singing and doing sideshow antics during the show. At first you can dismiss it, but after about 30 minutes you really just want him to go away. All at once he’s annoying, pathetic and scary. Yet he continues to hammer nails up his nose, swallow crucifixes, chop cucumbers on the back of women’s necks while they rest their heads on a pitchfork, and then chases audiences members, myself and friends included, around with a chainsaw. Some would call this entertainment, but I found it frightening. The majority of the audience acted like this was normal behavior, but I’ve never had a man, a green-horned man no less, come at me with a power tool before. And at first you think it might just be tricks, that it’s probably just magic or something. But then you remember the coral that he’s willingly had fixed onto his skull and realize that is in fact A REAL FUCKING CHAINSAW THAT HE IS SWINGING AROUND BY YOUR LEGS.

So much for being open-minded. I could let the crazy lady talk from earlier in the evening slide – she could have been really drunk, or just crazy, or both – but chainsaw… NO WAY. Everyone came out at the end to play one final song together, and two of the four women on the tour happily danced around some more. Hanin thankfully lent a constructive hand, banging on a floor tom near the side of the stage. Half of the audience jumped on stage as well. I was waiting for a fire to start, for someone to lose a limb or at the very least get drilled in the eye with a nail, but it didn’t happen. Instead Curse Mackey (Grim Faeries, Evil Mothers) announced to the crowd, address and all, that they could all find him at Lit after the show. That was definitely mistake #4, but finally not one that included me!

The Boredoms / Bowery Ballroom / May 25, 2005

2005-05-26T05:59:00.000-07:00

“Hey, so uh [name withheld] was tripping balls and he fell on his face and now he’s bleeding everywhere and I’m holding his teeth in my hand and we have to take him to the hospital, so we’re leaving the Bowery Ballroom now.”

I received this phone call before the Boredoms even started playing.

Yeah. It was that kind of night.

So basically, every freakout noisecore psych-drone fuckup band out there just needs to stop right now, because you will never be the Boredoms. Sorry. Give it up and stop trying. Play electroclash or something.

The set started with Eye and two balls. When he slammed the balls together, they lit on fire and made thunder noises. He howled. Cthulhu woke up and yawned. Or at least it sounded like it.

Three drummers sat down at three fully-loaded drum kits. One of them was Yoshimi. It doesn’t matter who the other two were because, fuck, it’s Yoshimi. I want to make babies with her arm muscles.

I can’t tell you what happened during the rest of the show. I think that part of my brain is currently being mopped off the Bowery Ballroom floor.

Bright Eyes, The Faint / Webster Hall / May 21, 2005

2005-05-26T05:54:00.000-07:00

Worst. Bright. Eyes. Show. Ever.

I guess I should have known, given that this was the Digital Ash tour, that they’d mostly be playing stuff from that album. And I don’t like that album. But they even managed to stink up “Neely O’Hara”! How is that possible? (Well, I guess if Bruce can maul “Promised Land” then anything’s possible.) The sound was just too FULL. Too many cooks in the kitchen, too many people on stage. Also, Conor was clearly in a bad mood.

The Faint played pretty much the same set as the last time I saw them at Webster Hall, even down to the big, scary lighting rig descending for the final song. So yeah, read what I wrote here and that’s how I felt again.

Just as Bright Eyes took the stage, I looked over my shoulder to find Lee Ranaldo and his wife standing right behind me. Ack! Total freakout moment! With just a turn of my head, I could behold both my high-school and college rock star crushes in the flesh! What next—would Richard Marx walk in? Luke Perry? Jordan Catalano? Prince Westley from The Princess Bride?

Read my Newsday review here.

The Evens, Parts and Labor / East River Amphitheater / May 21, 2005

2005-05-26T05:50:00.000-07:00

For the first time in waaaay too long, I ventured out of my cave during daylight hours. The sun glared at me and I glared back. Then we made peace and I headed over to the East River Music Project’s first show of the season. If it’s a nice day, going to see some bands play for free at an outdoor amphitheater on the banks of the East River is the best thing in the world. And it was a nice day. So I didn’t care that the Evens were kinda blah, with Ian MacKaye raging against The Man while wearing cargo shorts and playing these dinky songs with no melody. Amy Farina was adorable with her bare feet and ponytail on the top of her head. They tried to get everybody to sing a song about how the police are bad but I didn’t sing it because I’m a scaredy cat and I don’t want the police to hate me.

Parts and Labor, though—oh man. U2 as a noise band! Every song aims for the hilltops—and scores! Poisson, hook me up with that new shit.

Fischerspooner / Canal Room / May 19, 2005

2005-05-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

This performance featured costumes, heavy makeup, video projections, bubbles and confetti. And yet, it didn’t feel over-the-top enough. The first time I saw Fischerspooner, at the Electroclash festival in 2001, they had all of those things plus dancers, an army of light and smoke machine operators, and choreography and stage direction worthy of a Broadway musical. They were also really annoying, starting and stopping every song repeatedly as part of some sort of “hey, let’s expose the artifice of the situation” art-school experiment. I loved the glorious trashiness of the music, but goddamn, after a half-hour of that bullshit, I wanted to assassinate Casey Spooner.

This time, they only pulled the stop/start stunt once, and I was actually glad they did. A minute into a lackluster version of “Emerge,” Casey got all bitchy and stormed off stage, out the club’s back door and onto Canal Street, followed by the rest of the band. (Yes, they’re using a full-on rock band now. No more fake playing and lip-synching, at least as far as I could tell.) Of course, they came back and played the song again, with far more enthusiasm.

The show was fun and theatrical and silly. Casey crowd-surfed and humped various band members. The only annoying thing about it was the backup singer, who unpleasantly reminded me of the snooty girl in A Chorus Line.

As Tom Breihan so eloquently put it here, I just don’t get why everybody hates Fischerspooner. Sure, for them, style is substance, but so what? Their songs are catchy as fuck and they’re fun to look at. What’s wrong with that? Maybe it is all some art school prank. If so, good for them. They fooled me.

Bruce Springsteen / Tower Theatre, Upper Darby, PA / May 17, 2005

2005-05-24T22:48:00.000-07:00

Well, I knew it wasn’t going to rock. I was prepared for that. What I wasn’t prepared for was most of the Devils & Dust songs sounding even duller than on the record. “Matamoros Banks,” “Jesus Was an Only Son,” “Silver Palomino,” “The Hitter,” “Black Cowboys”… zzzzz. Oh Bruce, how you feel the pain of the common man. Blah blah blah. But when the common man comes home from work at the factory, she doesn’t want to hear this boring-ass shit. She wants to party.

I really shouldn’t complain. I got to see a Bruce Springsteen set from only like 20 rows back at the Tower! I sat right behind Pierre Robert! And he did play some gorgeous stuff – “Youngstown,” “Incident on 57^th Street,” “Wreck on the Highway.” Definitely more than a few “well, everybody should just stop making records right now because no music will ever be as beautiful as this” moments.

But it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to. Two songs I was really, really, really excited about seeing—“Reason to Believe” and of course “The Promised Land”—were delivered in such radically reconfigured ways, I barely recognized them. “Reason to Believe” literally sounded like Beck’s “One Foot in the Grave”—it was just Bruce, a harmonica, and his stomping foot. No trace of the original melody. Totally intense, totally punk—totally not “Reason to Believe!” Also, “The Promised Land” was done as an acoustic dirge/lullaby. Now, I understand that it must get boring playing the same songs over and over again for decades. But goddammit, why ya hafta go and make things so complicated, Bruce? “The Promised Land” is an ANTHEM! It should be shouted from the hilltops!

More griping: Both “The River” and “I’m on Fire” appeared on virtually every other setlist from this tour, according to Backstreets. Yet they were nowhere to be found in Philly. Screw that.

Also, Bruce ended the show with a cover of Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream,” played on a pump organ. He’s been doing that for most of the tour, and if you’re a crazed Bruce fan, you know that it isn’t actually that weird—he’s been a Suicide fan for years. (Check out “State Trooper”—sounds like Suicide unplugged, doesn’t it?) But here’s my beef: “Dream Baby Dream,” when performed by Suicide, is one of the scariest pieces of music of all time. Alan Vega sounds like he’s about to kill Baby. But Bruce turned it into a straightforward love song. No! This song is about nightmares! Not sweet dreams! Damn you, Bruce!

When the lights came up and everybody started walking out, Four Tet came floating out of the PA. Whoa. But if you look here, you will discover that yes, Bruce is indeed a Four Tet fan. Somebody get Kieran Hebden on some Devils & Dust remixes ASAP!

Jeff Buckley exhumed

2005-05-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

Our friend Daphne Brooks (no relation, I wish though...) will be reading/discussing her new amazing little book on Jeff Buckley this Thursday. Daphne is one of our favorite thinkers. Join us, won't you?

A Reading of Jeff Buckley's Grace
with author Daphne Brooks

Thursday, May 26
at 7:00 p.m.
Cake Shop
152 Ludlow
LES, NYC
(between Stanton and Rivington)
www.cake-shop.com

The power and influence of Jeff Buckley's Grace increases with each passing year. Here, Daphne Brooks traces Buckley's fascinating musical development through the earliest stages of his career, up to the release of the album. With access to rare archival material, Brooks illustrates Buckley's passion for life and hunger for musical knowledge, and shows just why he was such a crucial figure in the American music scene of the 1990s.

Jeff Buckley's Grace is latest in the 33 1/3 music series by Continuum Books. Copies of the book will be available at Cake Shop.

Daphne A. Brooks is an assistant professor of English at Princeton University where she teaches courses on AfricanˆAmerican literature and culture, performance studies, critical gender studies, and popular music culture. She is the author of two books, Jeff Buckley's Grace (2005) and Bodies in Dissent: Performing Race, Gender, and Nation in the TransˆAtlantic Imaginary (Duke University Press, 2006).

Dropping/kicking science

2005-05-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

Not a show review, but a book review.

If you're reading this, chances are great that the Rock Snob's Dictionary will beckon more than a few heaving belly laughs from you.

I interviewed co-author David Kamp here. Kamp is the guy who wrote that stunning article on Rick Rubin/Johnny Cash that ran in Vanity Fair last year; one of the best pieces of music journalism in recent memory.

Thunderbirds Are Now! / Knitting Factory Old Office / May 12, 2005

2005-05-14T04:47:00.000-07:00

This show was perfect. Perfect venue (dark, dank, low-ceilinged basement), perfect audience (sardine-packed math rockers and tight-pants-hardcore kids), perfect length (30 minutes), perfect temperature (tropical), perfect smell (body odor + beer), perfect band. Detroit’s Thunderbirds Are Now! play jittery ADHD-core electro-punk, like all your favorite no wave bands but with actual melodies and hooks. Dinky synths, garage riffs, slapping-your-little-brother beats. On stage, the band somehow managed to top the energy level of their manic new album Justamustache, freaking out like Les Savy Fav’s kid brothers, bouncing around in the crowd and just generally losing their shit. The singer/guitarist looks and sounds like he’s twelve years old (I honestly thought it was a girl singing the first time I heard TAN!) and a lost Pete from Pete and Pete. He has a bird tattooed on his arm, which could be a thunderbird, but I don’t know what a thunderbird looks like and Google Images is just showing me cars and email programs. At one point, he leaned over and kissed the bass player on the cheek. That was the best part of the show.

Motorhead / B.B. King’s / May 5, 2005

2005-05-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

Reviewed by MH

Motorhead were awesome. Dudes SMOKED and there was smoke!!! (But sadly no pyrotechnics.) As soon as the first song started up, flasks were being pulled out and joints were sparked up by all around me. No matter where you stood in the place, the sound was deafening (in a good way). Lots of old dudes w/ beer guts wearing King Diamond shirts. There was a bunch of guys in suits, too, and one in particular was sporting a Motorhead shirt underneath his jacket. The male to female ratio was out of control. It’s the first thing we noticed walking into the sea of black at BB King’s (which felt like a Jersey shore venue). Donna and I were the hottest girls in there even given the fact that I had on jeans, a hoodie, converse and no make-up. The gross part was walking through the packed crowd. Rubbing your body against metal dudes, big or small, hot or not (mostly not), made us feel violated. It didn’t help that even if the guys had some room to move aside, they wouldn’t. Knowing this and having no choice but to squeeze through made us cringe. Another shitty moment: the drum solo. He thought it was bad ass, but it was truly boring. He’s got 14 cymbals, two of which he never hit the entire night, but at least his lighting was good. With his long blonde hair flailing under the yellow lights he looked like some golden-haired creature, which was awesome since he’s fugly under regular lighting. But watching him solo felt, like...well it felt wrong! It’s all ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! and then you’re subjected to that out of nowhere — it was just a total bummer. And people thought it was tight!

The Mars Volta / Roseland / May 6, 2005

2005-05-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

I gotta hand it to the Mars Volta. They play half-hour long songs and still manage to debut at number 4 on the Billboard 200 and sell out Roseland two nights in a row. They have convinced an entire generation of skateboarders that prog rock is cool and maybe got some kids to check out the Fania All-Stars. They are not white, but Alternative Press and Filter put them on their covers.

Still, two hours of the Mars Volta is not fun. Not fun at all. It is, as Jamie pointed out, like going to the opera. An edifying high culture experience. There is a complicated plot and lots of symbolism and high drama. A man wails in a foreign language. Every piece has ten choruses, thirty breakdowns and sixty time-signature changes. You leave feeling educated. And very, very tired.

New Order / Hammerstein Ballroom / May 5, 2005

2005-05-05T23:39:00.000-07:00

Since I am reviewing this for Pitchfork, and thus must conserve all witty observations and one-liners, I will instead report how Luke Jenner, frontman for The Rapture, who happened to be sitting next to me, enjoyed the show. I will also note that he was wearing a pink sweater and cowboy boots.

Beginning of set through “True Faith”: Luke sits stone-faced and quiet. Claps at end of songs.

“True Faith”: Luke mouths words, leans back and forth in chair a little bit.

“Jetstream” (featuring guest vocalist Ana Matronic from the Scissor Sisters): Luke picks nose. Hard. Rubs boogers in palm.

“Bizarre Love Triangle”: Luke bounces slightly in chair.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart”: Like rest of crowd, Luke stands up and sings along.

“Temptation”: Luke stays on feet. Dances vaguely.

“Blue Monday”: Luke’s date is not feeling this one at all. She sits with unpleasant look on her face as Luke stands. Midway through song, he sits down.

I’m also pretty sure that Nicky Hilton walked by me when I was waiting in line at the bar. So I watched her take her seat in the front row of the first-floor box and periodically checked in on her throughout the evening. She danced the entire time and seemed to be having way more fun than Luke Jenner.

Read my Pitchfork review here.

The Decemberists, Rebecca Gates / Irving Plaza / May 4, 2005

2005-05-04T23:27:00.000-07:00

caryn: So, what did you think?

amy: petra haden is adorable

caryn: A very nice addition to the band, I think. Their harmonizing was particularily sweet.

amy: she sang lead on a kickass cover of kate bush's "wuthering heights"

amy: i noticed that several songs seemed a bit slower than on the album

amy: but it didn't bother me much

amy: maybe it had to do with the new drummer

caryn: Can I say something right off the bat? Prepare for a rant. I think that Kelefa of the Times is a popist. I'm so sick of this Bush-era condemnation of things that are smart and the celebration of smart people who dumb themselves down. I mean, I love pop just as much as the next Crunk Juice-drinking red-blooded American. But to condemn musicians for being too literary? Bah! Harvard guilt goes far, eh?

amy: wow

amy: it's like everybody's so desperate to not seem to be a rockist, sort of

caryn: Seriously, I'm sick of the damp morass of the cultural climate right now. There's this stupid ass guy the Bush cabal just installed to head PBS. In an interview he said he didn't even watch PBS that much and he'd rather read People magazine. Give me a fucking break. We need to take to the streets and reclaim our culture and I nominate The Decemberists to lead the charge. Now, back to our regularily scheduled episode of Colin Watch 2005.

amy: he ate dinner at republic before the show

amy: we know this because we ate there too!

caryn: Yes, that was very exciting. Let me fill our readers in more fully. Amy and I decided to sup at the reasonably priced and plentifully plated Republic restaurant in Union Square. I'm digging into my noodles, look up, and there is young Colin Meloy enjoying a nice repast with a cast of thousands. Amy stole his fork after he left.

amy: not true! caryn didn't even tell me when he walked by to leave so that i could ogle him!

caryn: C'mon, someone's got to protect your pride. Now, we need to confess to the People, that we were living VIP at the show. Tell the people.

amy: yeah, we were straight VIP-ing at this show

amy: at one point colin came and stood right behind us

caryn: We had real, live Decemberists up in our grill before the show started. We were also extremely nerdy and got there almost before the band, even. This insured good seats. And I didn't even get kicked out by David Bowie.

amy: caryn shot the shit about portland bars with him and some other guy while i pretended like i didn't notice

caryn: Colin seemed nervous when I started dropping Portland science. Like maybe I had followed him all the way across the country. I think I might look like that girl.

amy: scary stalker girl?

caryn: Speaking of, a rundown of tonight's Strange Ladies Who Love Colin report. There was a girl who thrust her tap shoe at CM. And another who threw a dirty sock at him.

amy: apparently the words "it's sara's birthday" were written on the sock

amy: colin was kinda mean about it. he made some snarky comment.

amy: but you know what? after watching this show, i don't think colin is my favorite decemberist anymore

amy: i think it's a tie between chris funk and jenny conlee

caryn: I'd get snarky if someone threw a dirty sock at me. The place to was way sold out. Unlike many sold out shows, the crowd stayed completely in place the entire time. Completely rapt. Jenny Conlee reminds me of Carol Kane for some reason.

amy: yeah, i can see that. i think it's the teeth.

amy: she was making some hilarious faces and seemed very happy up there

amy: chris funk... man, that guy rules. he put on a pink bandana during "mariner's revenge song."

amy: and he used to manage the coup and lifesavas!

caryn: Yeah, she would roll her eyes into the back of her head. The new drummer is this guy John Moen who's been in about a million different appealing Portland bands. The Dharma Bums, The Maroons. I think he was in Satan's Pilgrims. He plays with Malkmus, I believe.

amy: he seemed to fit right in. he got quite goofy during "the mariner's revenge song", which was the last song of the evening. he was crawling around on the floor and stuff

caryn: Would you say that the crowd was a youth and beauty brigade?

amy: not really

amy: i was very happy to see lots of nerdy boys unaccompanied by females

caryn: That song about the California wine. Man, that so could have been the Sideways theme song.

amy: totally

amy: i thought this show did a good job of balancing the silly and the sublime

caryn: I loved, loved, loved when Petra started fiddling the hora and then Colin turned it into this faux guitar solo thing and struck all the electric guitar solo poses, but was only plucking on his acoustic. Brilliant.

amy: yes! "hava nagila" in da house!

amy: it was just another example of colin totally fucking with rock star stereotypes

caryn: Indeed. What were these kids wearing? They looked like chef's jackets merged with safari wear and morphed with deck hand gear. I think whatever it was, it was extremely uncomfortable because little by little they all took off their costumes.

amy: it's the same outfits they wear in the press photos for the new album. you can see them, oh i don't know, HERE

amy: so did you honestly like rebecca gates' opening set?

caryn: Honestly? No. It's weird. Here I am, a person who actually owns every Spinanes 7 inch available. I own all Spinanes releases. Yet, she played almost nothing I knew nor was what she did play compelling. If she didn't have me, I doubt she had anyone. It wasn't the right mood for the size of the venue and crowd. That said, I am a Rebecca fan and I do think she is an awesome songwriter. I don't think she did a terrible job, I just think she could do better. Maybe as the tour progresses John Moen will back her up on drums; he actually used to play drums for her after Scott Plouf left the Spinanes. I'm sure that's how she got the gig, too.

amy: yeah, it was definitely the wrong setting for her. big, loud club full of people who don't want to see you, and you are just a woman with a guitar: not good

amy: oh yeah, i think my favorite part of the show was when everybody started playing tambourines

amy: i think that was during "the sporting life"? maybe?

amy: then at the end, colin threw his tambourine in the audience

caryn: There were multiple tambourines dispersed. What a lovely parting gift!

amy: the decemberists are so my favorite band right now.

The Books, Keith Fullerton Whitman and Greg Davis / Knitting Factory / May 2, 2005

2005-05-04T05:24:00.000-07:00

KFW + GD = Drone-o-rama! Big, pillowy swathes of sound pouring forth from a buncha computers, keyboards, mixers, percussion instruments and beards. They pushed buttons, banged on stuff and showed films of nature, toys and cats. Or at least I think they did. I couldn’t see everything that was going on because I was sitting in the balcony and that big pole was blocking my view. But the noize boyz I consulted with said it was awesome, man.

In between sets, we noticed that a girl down in front had taken her top off and was now wearing just a black bra. That was unexpected.

My only problem with the Books is their overzealous sampling. They have these gorgeous, lilting, folky melodies with just the right amount of glitch drizzled on top, and then they go and fuck them up with all these stupid dialogue clips. I found this to be particularly irksome in the live setting. Every time I saw that guy reaching over to push a button on the sampler, I wanted to scream, “NO! DON’T DO IT!” and then dive down from the balcony and bite off his hand.

The most fascinating member of the Books is vocalist/keyboardist/fiddleist (is that a word?) Anne Doerner. Spaced-out hippie earth mama chick with a husky voice, mad fiddlin’ skillz and even madder armpit hair. She looks like your favorite camp counselor or, if your brain has been fried by eating too many Nerds Ropes, the editor of Spin magazine. At one point she held up a jar of mayonnaise and said it was a portal to another dimension. Uh huh…

I thought the Books’ set was pleasant, relaxing and quite beautiful (samples aside). Yes, it was a bit long (I stopped looking at my watch after an hour and a half), but I was in total zone-out mode, lost in thoughts of the cosmos. Had I not been sitting in a comfy chair the whole time, however, my experience might have been different. Friends who stood down on the floor the whole time thought the Books were “some Phish bullshit I would have thought was cool in, like, ninth grade.” “It was like I went to see my favorite rapper perform all the great songs on his album but all he did was the skits.”

Sightings, Pajo / The HintHouse Roof / May 1, 2005

2005-05-02T04:08:00.000-07:00

I love New York City so fucking much. When the weather’s warm and the sky is clear, and I’m sitting on a rooftop with my friends and assorted indie/psych/folk/noise freaks, and the air smells like barbecue, and there are little children running around, I completely forget about astronomical rent, Mayor Bloomberg, drunk guys pissing in the street, cockroaches and acid rain. Because this place rules.

Every year, the No Neck Blues Band throws a Greek Easter celebration, and this year it took place on the roof of their compound in Harlem. Coincidentally, the Columbia MFA visual arts program was simultaneously holding their spring show at a space down the block, thereby transforming 131^st street between Broadway and 12^th Ave into a little slice of Williamsburg for an afternoon. I briefly checked out the art show, only to reconfirm the fact that I suck at art.

The roof was crowded with happy, chilled-out people with lots of hair. Mark Ibold was there. Surprisingly, James Iha and Thurston Moore were not.

Sightings played a half-hour of throbbing scree n skronk. I thought their subwoofers were going to explode. As usual, the groove songs worked better than the non-grooves. The bassist and guitarist were making luuuv to their instruments, getting all googly-eyed and guitar-faced.

Dave Pajo did hushed solo acoustic folk stuff that was pretty for a minute and then blah. Daphne noticed that he was wearing one of those turquoise rings you buy in gift shops in Arizona.

We left before NNCK’s set. Sorry, guys. But your house was awesome!

Good Charlotte / Radio City Music Hall / April 26, 2005

2005-05-01T01:09:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the magnanimous Tim Quirk (that guy rules!), I found myself at some sort of secret RealNetworks-sponsored Good Charlotte show at Radio City on Tuesday night. I thought the crowd would be mostly RealNetworks tools, and there certainly were plenty of those, but there was also a healthy representation of genuine GC fans (I think the show was open to fan club members and contest winners, too). So many adorable eight-year-olds in studded belts and eyeliner! I wanted to hug them all!

As with any pop-punk band, I expected GC’s live show to be through-the-roof exciting, with tons of pogoing and windmills and guitar faces. This was not the case. Benji sure did spit a lot, but other than that, they totally phoned it in. They also looked TERRIBLE. Maybe it was just bad lighting, but whenever the fan-o-vision screens did a close-up on someone’s face, it was like a “BEFORE” shot in a ProActiv ad. Joel looked like he was PMS-ing, all bloated and out of it. And those creepy tattoos on the sides of his neck…ugh.

Despite the lack of on-stage enthusiasm, the music sounded great. “The Anthem,” “I Just Wanna Live” and “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” were all nice n crunchy n shiny.

Best part of the show: Christopher Weingarten got up to go to the bathroom at the exact moment GC started playing “Girls and Boys.” A pack of screaming girls came running down the aisle and—I shit you not—knocked him flat on the ground! He later said, “Man, I wish music still made me feel that way.” I told him to steer clear of me at the Decemberists show next Wednesday.

Out Hud, Need New Hella Arkestra / First Unitarian Church, Philadelphia, PA / April 22, 2005

2005-04-30T03:18:00.000-07:00

The basement rec room of the First Unitarian Church, on the corner of 22^nd and Chestnut in Philly, is my favorite live music venue in the world. All ages. No smoking. Re-entry. Clean, plentiful bathrooms. Slippery linoleum floor, great for dancing. Three-foot-high stage for maximum intimacy (when the band isn’t playing on the floor, that is.) Totally D.I.Y. In recent years, a local record store has been setting up shop in the hallway, so you can shop in between sets. (Genius, right? Every venue should do this.) I have so many great memories from there: witnessing one of the first Atom & His Package performances, meeting my high-school boyfriend at a Franklin show, seeing KARP, Rainer Maria, Delta 72, Wesley Willis, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Liars…

I hadn’t been back to the Church in a couple of years, and I had to miss the NYC stop of the Out Hud / Hella tour due to Passover, so I was super duper excited for this show. But man oh man, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen. After an opening set by some boring band featuring former members Ink and Dagger, an army of scruffy, shaggy hobo freak-folk people took the stage, some of whom I recognized as being in Need New Body. Then a quartet of old jazz outcat dudes joined them. Hella drummer Zach Hill and roadie extraordinaire Joe Meade stood in the center of the fray, directing traffic. WTF? This was not what I expected. Zach clued me in: his other half, guitarist Spencer Seim, had left the tour because his father had a heart attack, so Zach was recruiting local musicians in each city to do improv sets. Whoa! The jazz dudes were from the Sun Ra Arkestra. Double whoa!

They then proceeded to melt my face off for a half-hour. The Arkestra folks were cool, calm and collected while everybody else went apeshit trying to keep up with Zach’s Incredible-Hulk-meets-Speedy-Gonzalez drumming. At one point, Joe started dancing around the stage while wearing an elaborate headdress made of newspaper, crepe paper and an orange baseball cap. A long-haired hippie chick (the only woman on stage) made orgasm noises into the mic. That bothered me, I think for the same inexplicable reason it pisses me off when a band only has one female member and she plays keyboards.

After that half-hour, one of the Arkestra guys said something about working with Trey Anastasio, and that pretty much killed the mood. The second half-hour jam was just boring.

Like the Need New Hella Arkestra, Out Hud took for-fuckin-ever to set up, so it was after midnight by the time they started. I was falling asleep on my feet waiting for them, but as soon as they launched into “One Life to Leave,” I was on. Brian Howe accurately captures the futility of trying to take notes during an Out Hud set here, and man, did I take some shitty notes. The room wasn’t crowded at all, probably because the Philly hipster population was spread thin due to the simultaneous Dizzee Rascal and Bonnie “Prince” Billie/Superwolf shows, so there was plenty of room to dance. I and all the other un-self-conscious white people (which were many) awkwardly thrust our limbs and midsections about in an approximation of what some would refer to as “gettin’ funky,” working up a nice smelly sweat. Nic Offer was King Dork, goofballin’ it up with jokes (“S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D.? More like Street Dead! Seriously, have you listened to that shit lately?” “I heard WaWa merged with Walgreens to form WaWalgreens.”) and uninhibited, overdramatic motion, which eventually landed him in the middle of the crowd. Phyllis Forbes continues to be one of the most gorgeous creatures on the planet. Molly Schnick had bags the size of golf balls under her eyes. Their vocals weren’t nearly as smooth and pretty as they are on the record, but it didn’t matter. We were all too busy dancing to care.

Read my Inky review here.

Pop Conference 2005 / Experience Music Project, Seattle, WA / April 14-17, 2005

2005-04-26T02:19:00.000-07:00

(Better late than never, right?)

ATTENTION PEOPLE WHO ARE NOT ROCK CRITICS, ROCK CRITIC FANBOYS/GIRLS, POP MUSIC SCHOLARS OR MY FRIENDS: Move along, nothing to see here. Go play outside. I hear sunlight is good for you.

The reason why I haven’t been updating this blog too much recently is that my life has been consumed first by preparations for the 2005 EMP Pop Conference and then catching up on everything I missed because of it. This annual gathering of journalists, academics and plain old geeks (many of us fit in more than one of these categories) takes place at the pop music museum known as the Experience Music Project, a horrendously ugly building from the outside that is really cool inside. The 2005 conference’s theme was “Music as Masquerade: Poseurs, Playas, and Beyond,” so we all gave presentations having to do with that topic (some more loosely than others). I like to call EMP “Rock Critic Fantasy Camp” because we sorta get to pretend like we’re rock stars for a few days. Also, we stay up late drinking and gossiping and then whine to conference organizers / camp counselors Ann Powers and Eric Weisbard about how tired/hung over we are and how our papers suck.

Soo… here’s the rundown.

THURSDAY

At Thursday night’s Keynote Plenary, Penn’s Gunthrey Ramsey Jr. said, “Sometimes we tend to over-theorize things.” That pretty much sums up EMP. But hey, us music geeks get off on over-theorizing. It makes us feel important. And it’s fun!

The Keynote featured a whole bunch of people talking about minstrelsy, with a focus on Eric Lott’s landmark book Love and Theft. (Lott, by the way, looks like an aging glam rock star, with his wavy blonde hair, goatee and earrings. Not what I expected at all.) Some of the panelists droned on and on, some said meaningful stuff. Sasha Frere-Jones’ plane was delayed, so he submitted his comments via email. I had one of those stoner “whoa, totally” moments when he talked about how it was weird that both Diplo's and DJ Shadow's artist albums are whitebread ambient background music, but their DJ sets are all funky beats. Oh, and he said something like “political correctness is the condom of pop culture.” Genius.

FRIDAY

Unfortunately, I accidentally slept through a bunch of stuff I wanted to see, like Julianne Shepherd ’s Courtney Love presentation. The blogging panel was a bit disappointing, if only because it’s such a huge topic that it would need its own conference to even scratch the surface. One accidental revelation: three out of the five panelists haven’t talked to their fathers in ten years. Whoa. That made me think… maybe we really do turn to music to fill some sort of deep psychological void. Another stoner moment.

Next up was superfriend/EMP roomie Daphne Carr ’s ridonkulously good presentation about Polish disco music a.k.a. Disco-Polo a.k.a. polka that grew up listening to WKTU. Or WKTU listeners raised on polka. If you’ve never heard this stuff, your life is incomplete. Daphne was followed by Nate Harrison, who recorded his entire presentation on a vinyl acetate disc. So he sat there and stared off into space while his voice taught us all about the “Amen” break and how drum n bass culture is based entirely around six seconds of sound. It made me really, really want to listen to drum n bass.

I moseyed on over to the “Lessons in Mayhem” panel, which had nothing to do with the Norwegian death metal band and everything to do with Matmos/Soft Pink Truth/Pitchfork cutie Drew Daniel talking about this bizarre Germs “reunion” concert he went to featuring actors playing the Germs and the real live surviving Germs themselves. Drew’s paper also featured the conference’s greatest phrase: “a discursive smoothie of formaldehyde and lube.” Ooh, I get shivers just typing that. He showed a video of him getting a Germs Burn from Don Bolles, too. Punk fucking rock.

Greil Marcus had to follow that, and I actually felt bad for him. His presentation was kinda dull, with him droning on about various covers of blues songs and describing a scene from Ghost World in detail. Why didn’t you just play the clip, man? His thesis—that the most successful blues covers are those that are disrespectful—is right-on, but I wish he had included some sound samples to liven things up.

Marcus’ star was further eclipsed by David Thomas, the ginormous Pere Ubu / Rocket From the Tombs frontman, who delivered a spectacular rant about Ernie Anderson, a.k.a. Ghoulardi, who hosted late-night monster movie marathons on TV in Ohio in the ‘60s. Veins popping, hands shaking, voice cracking, he bellowed about how Ghoulardi introduced all the Ohio proto-punks to media manipulation. At one point, he exclaimed, “My eyes are sweating!” There was also PowerPoint involved. When he finished, he collapsed in his chair. I, too, felt exhausted, like I’d just witnessed an entire Pere Ubu performance. During the Q + A, Thomas was in full-on bitch mode, dissing bands like the Ramones for being too conservative and generally chewing out anybody asking questions. One guy asked if his Jehovah’s Witness upbringing influenced his music. His reply? “NO.”

The “My Other Life” panel started off with moderator Dave Dederer talking about being a has-been rock star (he’s one-third of the Presidents of the United States of America) and a consultant for a public affairs firm. Then this guy from Les Sans Culottes did some impressive air guitaring . Coincidentally (or not), he was followed by Ted Widmer, former member of the Upper Crust. Fake French joke band-o-rama! Widmer told the incredible story of going from being a Boston indie rocker to a speechwriter for President Clinton. Apparently, the FBI thoroughly investigated him, searching his old song lyrics for treasonous sentiments. Yowza. My other superfriend/EMP roomie Sara Sherr had to follow that, but she held her own quite well with her tales of debauched nights with the Philly drag musical comedy troupe Dumpsta Playas. The video footage of the Dumpstas’ performances was hilarious, particularly a scene involving an extremely lifelike dildo and a hole in a bathroom wall. My only complaint: more video of Sara as Mrs. Miller, please!

Edie Sedgwick closed the panel with a performance of his/her Martin Sheen song and some theorizing about the Deeper Meaning Of It All, blah blah blah. But by that point, I’d had enough brain calisthenics for the day, and all I could think was, Edie Sedgwick is balding!”

SATURDAY

Up bright and early for the 9:00 am “Scenester Poses” panel, which started off with Phil Freeman saying some very rockist things about pop starlets wearing metal t-shirts. Then some girl blabbed on and on about ageism and rock writing. She played these sound clips from interviews she’d done with big shot writers, but she had obviously recorded them on some shitty mini-cassette deck so they sounded like crap and were totally useless. Luckily, Alex Richmond brought us all back from the edge of boredom with her examination of Insane Clown Posse and their fans. She showed a mesmerizing DVD clip featuring one long tracking shot of an endless line of Juggalos. It made me really, really want to listen to Insane Clown Posse. I guess that means her presentation was a success.

Most definitely a success was Joe Schloss’s examination of breakdancing culture, complete with a live demonstration by the presenter! For a nerdy white Tufts professor, dude can sure bust a move. Hopefully, everybody will remember the breakdancing and nobody will remember that girl’s shitty sound clips.

I skipped Xgau’s supposedly amazing paper on the Coasters to check out the “Making the Scene” panel. Kimberly Chun talked about genderfucking San Francisco art-punks. Evelyn McDonnell expounded on Miami booty bass, but she made the unfortunate decision of playing the 2004 MTV Video Music Awards while she spoke. How am I supposed to pay attention to anything else in this world when a shirtless Usher is confessing his sins to me? McDonnell also played a clip of a booty bass song about Janet Reno, which is now my new favorite song. (I downloaded it and passed it on to Matthew, so now you can find it on Fluxblog.) Then Ned Sublette said a whole lot of cool shit about New Orleans and the Mardi Gras Indians and slavery and Master P. I can’t remember his thesis, but his talk induced several stoner moments.

After buying lunch from that same famous Seattle Center food court where Ann Powers once worked, I caught a bit of the unremarkable academia/journalism roundtable discussion. Then I snuck back to the hotel for a nap. I returned to the EMP in time to catch the tail end of Lavinia Greenlaw’s memoir of being a disco queen turned punk rock girl and Jessica Hopper’s tale of being a grunge rock poser because she wanted to impress some boy she had a crush on in high school, and how grunge lead her to riot grrrl and her calling in life. It sadly reminded me of how I started listening to Fatboy Slim and Daft Punk because of a high-school crush, but I guess I still am an electronic dance music poser. (And You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby is still a great album, I don’t care what anybody says.)

The “How to Rock Like a Black Feminist Critic” panel was the absolute highlight of the conference. It was like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time, then being punched in the stomach, then taking another breath, then being punched again. Daphne Brooks talked about how the key to dismantling rockism lies in embracing the perspectives of people like black feminists. Laina Dawes shared the horrors of being a black woman at metal concerts in Canada. (At a Judas Priest show, a biker guy grabbed her black, female friend by the hair and shouted, “I gotta get me one of these!”) Sonnet Retman argued for the canonization of Nona Hendryx. And the mighty Kandia Crazy Horse went off on Mick Jagger. Everybody got all riled up and inspired to Change the World, but of course that’s not going to happen. As soon as we left the building, the old rules still applied.

We all walked over to some funky performance space called On the Boards, where Ann had organized an evening of twelve-minute sets by various acts. I caught IQU’s delightful electro-pop medley (Theremin! Vocoder!) and El Vez’s sublimely trashy “Mexican Elvis” schtick. Dude can rock a fuzzy leopard-print catsuit like nobody’s business. Note to self: go see El Vez play next time he’s in town.

Then United State of Electronica’s publicist magically appeared out of nowhere, and he whisked us away to U.S.E.’s sold-out show at the V.E.R.A. Project, an all-ages venue that sells candy and soda at the concession stand. Joy! I was in a grumpy mood before the show, running my mouth about how U.S.E. make me want to kill puppies when I listen to them for too long, but the Grinch quickly disappeared once I saw the mass of adorable Hot Topic teenagers (and ecstatic ILM regulars) bouncing around to “Vamos a la Playa.” I guess the way to truly experience this band is live in their hometown, with an umbrella being passed through the crowd during “Umbrella of Love.” Oh, there was also a love train. And I’m pretty sure the keyboardist was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Jesus on it. The show ended with scores of giddy fans bumrushing the stage to bop next to their heroes. As we were waiting for a cab outside after the show, a car drove buy with a guy hanging out the window shouting, “U-S-E! U-S-E!” I was high on Vanilla Coke, so I started shouting, too.

SUNDAY

Due to the unusually high number of proposals for this year’s Pop Conference, EMP had to hold a couple of panels on Sunday morning. Bad idea. I stayed awake through Mica Hilson’s talk about how spookily white ‘80s synth-pop was and Joseph McCombs’ examination of straight guy singers taking on gay personae in song, but I nodded off during Gabriel Solis’ Tom Waits spiel and Griffin Woodworth’s presentation about Prince. Sorry, guys.

Then it was off to the airport.

Some closing thoughts…

The best thing about EMP is the schmoozing. You get to share ideas with like-minded folks from all over the world, and they don’t treat you like a space alien because you’re a music geek. It genuinely feels like a community. And unlike ILM or a mailing list, you are having real conversations with real live people standing right in front of you. This is something we all should do more often, don’t you think?

Tori Amos, Matt Nathanson / Verizon Hall at the Kimmel Center, Philadelphia, PA / April 11, 2005

2005-04-18T04:21:00.000-07:00

Whoever decided to put Matt Nathanson on the Tori Amos tour is some kind of marketing genius. Tori fans tend to be overwhelmingly emotional and overwhelmingly female, so OF COURSE they’ll go crazy for a cute, doughy, spiky-haired Ryan Adams/John Mayer/Gavin DeGraw sensitive acoustic guitar dude singing about how yooouuuu broke his heart. I mean, the guy hadn’t even strummed a note yet and the screaming was deafening. It was one of those moments that makes me hate my gender so much, I want to claw my tits off. (Then again, was I seriously expecting to not feel that way at any point during the night? I was at a frickin’ Tori Amos concert!) Nathanson seemed surprised by the response, so he told some jokes about Philly’s heavy metal history. Yes, we gave the world Britny Fox and Cinderella, and we’re proud of it.

As we waited for Tori to come on, I noticed a strange smell and smoke billowing up from stage left. WTF? M.J., who was sitting next to me, explained that it was probably Tori’s pre-show incense-burning ritual. Ah yes, how could I forget? She talked about that in her book.

I should probably make it clear that I like Tori Amos. She was an important part of my development as a pop music fan, and her 1994 show at the Tower Theatre was the first “cool” concert that I ever went to. I will viciously defend all of her albums up to and including To Venus and Back. But after that, she lost me. Scarlet’s Walk and The Beekeeper are adult-alternative snooze-o-rama. Fittingly, the lobby of the Kimmel Center was the scene of a showdown between dueling AA radio powerhouses KEXP and WXPN. Hot 97 and Power 105 got nothing on this!

Tori’s performance, as I wrote here, was absolutely perfect. And absolutely boring. It took all the powers of my journalistic ethics to keep from falling asleep. I did get a kick out of her cover of Springsteen’s “Streets of Philadelphia,” though, especially since I had been shut out of tickets for the latest Springsteen tour that very morning. (Screw you, Ticketbastard!) The crowd was very calm and respectful for the entire concert, until the end of “The Beekeeper” heralded the end of the main set and the start of the encore. All of a sudden, a crowd bumrushed the stage. Again, WTF? Again, I consulted M.J. Apparently, Tori was sick of rabid fans interrupting performances, so she spread word via a fan website that everybody was allowed to come down front, but only after she stood up from the piano bench after “The Beekeeper.” Wow.

Check out M.J.’s review here.

Alicia Keys, John Legend / Liacouras Center at Temple University, Philadelphia, PA / April 10, 2005

2005-04-18T03:43:00.000-07:00

Alicia Keys has the sexiest back in the world. I know this because I spent the better part of an hour and a half staring at it last week. Whenever Ms. Keys sat down at her big white grand piano, I had a perfect view of her toned-yet-not-too-toned-lest-we-suspect-the-lesbo-rumors-are-true back muscles peeking through the glittering white folds of her artfully sliced catsuit or, after a costume change, her Harlem-renaissance-diva evening dress. Watching her heave up and down on the piano bench, I pinched my own back flab and vowed, for the thousandth time, to get that damn gym membership.

The crowd at the Liacouras Center was the most diverse concert audience I’ve ever seen, not just in terms of race/ethnicity but also age, gender and class. Families, parents with their kids and their kids’ friends, middle-aged couples on dates, groups of working women celebrating Girls’ Night Out, thugs cruising for working women celebrating Girls’ Night Out, frat guys, sorority sisters, neo-soul bohemians, large ladies with large gold crosses around their necks getting into a car with the vanity plate GODSGRL. Not too many white hipster indie rockers, but hey, I was representing.

John Legend was mad boring, yo.

I highly recommend this whole reviewing-arena-shows racket, by the way. For the first time in my life, I got to sit in a pimped-out “press suite,” complete with its own bathroom, bar and cozy sofas, not to mention the complimentary Italian buffet from Maggiano’s! The Liacouras Center P.R. guy kept checking on me to see if everything was all right, too. Wow.

If you want to know about all that unimportant stuff like the music or whatever, you can read my “real” review here.

Martha Wainwright/Joe's Pub/ April 12, 2005

2005-04-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

Anyone else here think that Joe’s Pub has the best sound in the city? I don’t go a lot, but almost every time the sound has been perfect, almost chillingly so. There was one marrow-melting Grant Lee Phillips show there about five years ago that I just don’t think you could even replicate anywhere else.

I hadn’t been to Joe’s Pub since the Dresden Dolls about a year and half ago, so last night I was sort of startled by what seems to be a new seat reservation policy. I got there plenty early and they asked if I had a seat reservation and I was, like, uhhhh. So they told me I had to stand at the bar in the back. I was not pleased. I was able to infiltrate the table of a splayed-haired guy who looked like a backup musician of some kind (you know that look, right?) by just being forward and asking if there was anyone else sitting there. He was nice. What’s up with this seat reservation thing? Is it for every show? Do you have to pay more?

But back to the topic at hand. Martha Wainwright. She looks like a 70s burn out, a delicate cross-pollination of Stevie Nicks and Cherrie Currie. Her new self-titled record has really started to grow on me. Her voice is this almost twee tremolo that rides into instant signature territory. A Martha Wainwright song can always be picked up out of an aural line-up. The only thing the songs on this diverse new record of hers have in common is her voice and her sticky phrasing that French kisses vowels.

This night the only appearance made by a famous relative was by her mom, Kate McGarrigle, who flew in from a gig in Amsterdam to play piano for a few songs and kiss “my favorite daughter.” Martha’s dad Loudon is known to be a bit of prick when it comes to competing with his kids in the musical ring; he had a record that came out yesterday, the same day as his daughter’s first full-length and he scheduled a show at Joe’s Pub the night after hers. Maybe it will help her out, who knows? It just seemed lame, like he is trying to pull some spotlight away from her. Not surprising, then, that Martha’s song “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole” is about how her dad doesn’t treat her seriously (this ripe song is the most folky one on the record.) I guess he’s treating her seriously now. Where's this family's reality show? It would end up on PBS instead of Fox, but still.

I’m not sure if I was incredibly impressed or a little disappointed that her set, bulked up with songs from the new record, sounded a lot like they do on the disc (a perennial barometer for live music). In this case, I am leaning on the side of impressed. It was a record release show and it played homage to the studio work. As she stood on the stage wielding her simple acoustic guitar, I couldn't help but think: what would a Martha Wainwright/Andrew WK duet sound like? What can I say---the $11 G-n-T was particularly strong. But I actually think it would sound awesome.

LCD Soundsystem, Mahi Mahi / Bowery Ballroom / April 2, 2005

2005-04-04T03:44:00.000-07:00

Man oh man, what some people will do to get into a sold-out LCD Soundsystem show! In addition to all the chatter about astronomical eBay and Craigslist purchases, some guys I talked to took a bus all the way down from Boston just for the evening. And the DFA made poor Nick Sylvester run around with a cameraman following him while he asked audience members silly questions about Death From Above 1979 and the pope in exchange for his ticket. (If that footage ever sees the light of day, I’m the asshole standing next to Matthew Perpetua and shouting something stupid about James Murphy and the White Castle in Williamsburg.)

Mahi Mahi played a razor-sharp set of Numbers/Whirlwind Heat-type post-Kraftwerk icy robot dance stuff, but they were way better than Numbers or Whirlwind Heat. Too bad nobody saw them but a bunch of people from their hometown of Providence, me, David Byrne and David Byrne’s hot blonde lady friend. (Mr. Talking Head seems to be showing up at the Bowery Ballroom a lot lately, yes?)

I’m pretty sure LCD played the exact same set they did at SXSW. Same bitchy jokes and same Deth Killers t-shirt on James Murphy, too, though he seemed less drunk. Alas, no mosh pit this time, though there was a group of hefty jock-type dudes who kept hoisting one another up on their shoulders, pumping their fists in the air and yelling. (I get the feeling Murphy would not have invited them to the Daft Punk show at his house.) If I hadn’t been spoiled by the SXSW set, and I had positioned myself somewhere in the room where I could actually see the band as well as dance, I would have probably gone bananas for this show. I mean, it was still a LCD Soundsystem show, therefore making it 100x better than most concerts. Few things on this planet beat jumping up and down while they play “Movement” or “Tribulations.” But I couldn’t help being that jerk who kept saying, “It was so much better in Austin, maaan.”

Nick (sans cameraman) escorted me to the after-party at the Tribeca Grand, where we danced like the dorky rock critics we are among the scary Russian mafia-looking men in suits and their molls in halter tops. Dave P. and Headman spun some surprisingly wack ‘80s crap that made me feel like I was at Culture Club or something. Of course, as soon as we put our coats on and headed out the door, they started playing Annie and “Drop It Like It’s Hot.”

P.S. The Bowling For Soup show was still better.

Bowling For Soup, American Hi-Fi, Riddlin’ Kids, MC Lars / Irving Plaza / March 31, 2005

2005-04-01T21:40:00.000-08:00

Spotted in the VIP section: James Murphy, Diplo, Pharrell, several Fader and Vice staffers, Carlos D, Karen O, Drew n Fab, Jean Grae.

Sike! Not surprisingly, the VIP section was the least crowded I’ve ever seen it. That’s because any self-conscious scene-maker wouldn’t be caught dead at a concert like this. Your loss, folks. It was the best show I’ve been to this year. Funnier than Goldie Lookin Chain, more energetic than the Go! Team, better mosh pit than LCD at SXSW.

I’m going to be brief, because I’m reviewing the show for the Voice, and some things that were talked about during that NAJP panel have made me paranoid about plagiarizing myself.

We all know how I feel about MC Lars. (Although, contrary to what a certain music editor wrote in a certain free alt weekly, I am NOT in love with him!) He did pretty much the same set as the Mercury Lounge show, although Bowling For Soup came up and played “Signing Emo” with him.

Riddlin’ Kids were eh. The crowd was not feeling them and neither was I.

American Hi-Fi have hipster haircuts but their hearts bleed Warped Tour. Apparently they are just as popular as Bowling For Soup. Who knew?

Bowling For Soup are my favorite pop-punk band right now. Their new single, “Almost,” is like the Sistine Chapel of bubble-rock, so perfectly executed I can hardly believe it was crafted by mere humans. I think I’m going to try to convince Pitchfork to let me write about it. (Oh man, can you imagine the fallout from that?!) They thanked the fans over and over and over again, and boy did they mean it. As the frontman said, “This is the first time we’ve played in Manhattan and over half the audience’s salary isn’t paid by Britney Spears.” That being a reference to the fact that they are on Jive Records, who amazingly have stuck by them all these years despite the fact that their being successful was about as predictable as Dr. Dre hooking up with Burt Bacharach. Bowling For Soup are a perfect example of how mainstream pop music continues to be awesome, despite so many doomsayers. They are this big, fat loogie of WTF lobbed right at the heart of the Billboard charts that has actually stuck. Hats off to you, dudes.

Postscript: Read my Voice review here.

Noise from the Underground/Columbia University/March 29, 2005

2005-03-30T12:43:00.000-08:00

Amy and I were supposed to a do a blazing IM recount of last night’s throwdown*, but the girl is M.I.A. (and not in a galang way, either). Perhaps she’s too shy to recount her brief time on a stage filled with music journalism luminaries. Or maybe she’s been immediately whisked away to a containment center deep in the Rockies lest she reveal any more highly confidential blogging secrets.

But they didn’t get me. Here’s a list of not so secret secrets revealed.

1) Sasha Frere-Jones is a master moderator. Ha-ha-inducing, squabble-ready, hat-wearing and always with his hand on the control panel, he is a good argument for the rock critic as performer model. If you’ve been in a band, you’re cool with sitting on a stage in a packed, overly heated room serving up the banter. If you’ve hidden yourself away with your laptop and vinyl since age 12, well, you might not be so good at this kind of thing.

2) That guy Knox from the Fader is a trip. This is probably a litigious statement, but he seemed as though he baked and staked that night. A big brouhaha erupted when he claimed that professionalism in journalism serves to marginalize under represented groups. I actually think that he was misunderstood. I may be wrong, but I think that what he was trying to say is that the inverted pyramid traditional music crit style (this is what I think he meant by the term “professionalism”) blocks out things because of what it has to include in order to keep the professional style intact. So, a piece on Band A will have to include who, what, where, when, why in favor of some other fringe info and feel. Knox, you out there? Help us out, man.

3) Anthony DeCurtis was a brave fellow for volunteering to be the stand-in for The Man. He got pummeled repeatedly for being part of the establishment. You know what? He didn’t apologize. I have to respect that in a way.

4) I kept making thought bubbles appear over Tunde’s head. I wish that he had spoken more. It was interesting when he talked about getting stacks of clips about his band and how reading them one after another makes it abundantly clear how much biting goes on in the world of journalism. Cut-n-paste journalism = scourge of a nation.

5) I wish that there had been some representation by the Mp3 bloggers.

6) Amy yet again shamelessly promoted her mother. Amy’s mom has got it going on, but c’mon already. Uh, hi Mrs. Phillips. Amy was talking about when she writes for the Philly Inquirer, she imagines that she’s writing for her mother. I only imagine that I’m writing for my mother when I create my special poetry that I keep in my special place that helps me release my special feelings as advised by my Freudian analyst. Uh, hi Dr. Hammerichen.

7) I can almost completely visualize what Michael Azerrad was like in the 80s/90s, surrounded by stacks of seven inches and zines. Which is to say that he is cool. I mean, his name includes the word “rad.” I liked how he brought up the social climbing elements of links on blogs (not that there’s anything wrong with them, cough, cough…) as I don’t think people really discuss this kind of delicate old boy’s network nicking.

8) Mad props to Brandon Wall for keeping a day job in the j-biz and curating a professional looking music site. Not easy to do.

*In the spirit of full-disclosure (ain't that professional) I must mention that I am affiliated with the National Arts Journalism Program, the generous organization that put on this event. I was a NAJP fellow last year.

Tuesday: Hot Music Nerd Panel Action!!!

2005-03-27T19:43:00.000-08:00

Apparently, somebody somewhere decided that I'm some sort of music blogging expert or something. So, I'm going to be on this panel at the Columbia journalism school on Tuesday talking about "pop criticism and cred in the era of MP3s, zines and blogs." Want to see me make a complete fool of myself in front of a bunch of V.I.P. rock critic dudes and the singer from TV on the Radio? Now's your chance!

For more info, go here: http://www.najp.org/news/pastnews/news-noise-from-undergroun.html

The National Arts Journalism Program Presents
Pop Music Criticism Panel Discussion
At the Columbia University School of Journalism

New York, March 16 –Newly minted Web zines, blogs, alternative glossies and other do-it-yourself publishing channels, and what they all mean for the future of pop criticism will be the focus of a panel titled, “Noise from Underground: Pop Criticism and Cred in the Era of MP3s, Zines, and Blogs.” The event is sponsored by the National Arts Journalism Program (NAJP), a research center and fellowship program for arts and cultural journalists housed at the Columbia University School of Journalism. Sasha Frere-Jones, pop music critic from The New Yorker, will moderate the conversation.

The event is free and open to the public, though RSVP is recommended. Individuals (non-media) wishing to attend should RSVP to 212.854.2549 or alc60@columbia.edu.

WHAT: “Noise from Underground: Pop Criticism and Cred in the Era of MP3s, Zines, and Blogs”

WHO: Sasha Frere-Jones, pop music critic from The New Yorker (moderator); Tunde Adebimpe, musician, TV on the Radio (Touch and Go Records); Anthony DeCurtis, contributing editor, Rolling Stone, executive editor, Tracks, and editor of “Present Tense: Rock & Roll and Culture”; Amy Phillips, blogger, moreinthemonitor.com; Knox Robinson, editor in chief, The Fader; and Brandon Wall, editor in chief, prefixmag.com; Michael Azerrad, author of "Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana and "Our Band Could Be Your Life," editor-in-chief of emusic.com.

WHEN: Tuesday, March 29, 6:30 p.m.

WHERE: Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism Lecture Hall, Third Floor, 116th Street and Broadway.

The Go! Team/Southpaw/ March 22, 2005

2005-03-22T23:02:00.000-08:00

caryn (1:19:52 AM): It's weird to see a band and not really know the music. One of the weirder show going events in my life was seeing Tenacious D before I had ever caught the tv program. Everyone there was singing along. I felt like an alien.
amy (1:20:33 AM): oh my god you saw tenacious d live. i am so jealous
caryn (1:21:26 AM): Oh yeah, at this smallish club in Portland. When they were real culty. So, without a lot of pre-knowledge and some minor absorption of the Go! Team phenom, I have to say, I was not impressed.
amy (1:21:09 AM): the go team live experience is quite different from the album actually. the album sounds like a cut-and-paste dj record, like the avalanches
caryn (1:22:39: There seemed to be a total lack of cohesion with the stage show. Seriously, they reminded me of the dorky brother's band in Welcome to the Dollhouse. But not as good. And without the occasional sprightly sound of klezmer clarinet.
amy (1:23:10 AM): there was banjo, harmonica, melodica and recorder! surely that made up for it. yes, i agree they were sloppy. but i thought that made them endearing.
caryn (1:24:02 AM): I hated how the lead lady, as peppy as she was, tried to hype everyone with the most clichéd moves ever. Ye olde "Repeat after Me." Ye olde Battle of the Sexes. Ye olde wave yer hands in the air. Boooor-ING.
amy (1:24:32 AM): this is also true. it was quite cliché. but, once again, she was so cute it was endearing
caryn (1:25:23 AM): C'mon Amy. That's just weak. You usually don't let people slide just because they're cute. Or...maybe you do.
amy (1:25:56 AM): not just cute. endearing. getting over on pure charm.
caryn (1:24:45 AM): The bass player? He looked like those pictures of John Kerry from when he was in that garage band in his youth.
amy (1:24:57 AM): yeah! and he was wearing a springsteen-esque headband
amy (1:25:27 AM): as for the battle of the sexes, have you ever heard someone make the guys say "aahh-ooh, aahh-ooh" like dogs in heat
caryn (1:26:59 AM): Whatev. Some Brit lady came up to me and was like..."so, what do you think of 'em?" I wasn't sure if she was their sister or something. I was like, "Honestly? Not too impressed." She giggled and said, "Me either. I mean, they're from England, and I'm glad they're doing well, but..."
amy (1:28:36 AM): oh also, the mix was shit
amy (1:28:41 AM): made even worse by my earplugs
caryn (1:27:53 AM): I know that that record is likely much better and more complex and more cohesive. I will check it out before I delete Go! Team from my Buddy List.
caryn (1:31:34 AM): Ok, the two drummer thing. Trick or treat?
amy (1:32:00 AM): trick AND treat!
caryn (1:32:18 AM): Why?
amy (1:32:49 AM): well they obviously didn't need two drummers. and both drummers were playing along to backing tracks
amy (1:33:02 AM): so they weren't really adding to the music
caryn (1:33:05 AM): That's the trick.
amy (1:33:08 AM): yes
caryn (1:33:11 AM): What's the treat?
amy (1:33:26 AM): it seemed like they were like "hey, people will think it's cool if we have two girl drummers! let's do it"
amy (1:33:33 AM): the treat: it was cool!
amy (1:33:51 AM): i love watching female drummers
caryn (1:34:10 AM): Hmmm. Not buying it. A whole family in Africa could have been fed for a year just with the cost of transporting that second drum kit around.
amy (1:34:32 AM): oh come on. you think madonna shouldn't have backup dancers? kiss shouldn't use pyrotechnics?
amy (1:34:41 AM): it's the same thing. spectacle!
caryn (1:35:29 AM): I love a spectacle. Hooray the spectacle. This hardly was a spectacle. Maybe it their drumsticks were on fire. If Sheila E. can do it….
amy (1:36:01 AM): well, two girls, one of which is adorably pudgy, playing the drums with big goofy grins on their faces, is enough spectacle for me
caryn (1:36:23 AM): You are so gay Amy Phillips! I can see the movie now...Drum Fine XXX.
amy (1:37:05 AM): the boys in the band just weren't as cute as the girls
amy (1:37:37 AM): also, the show was very desexualized
amy (1:37:43 AM): it was like a children's birthday party
caryn (1:38:08 AM): That one with the orange t-shirt had a goofy rolling on X grin. Like Bez from the Happy Mondays.
amy (1:38:34 AM): according to my friends, that is the guy who made all the music on the album
caryn (1:39:30 AM): I think you're right about the total lack of sexualization. Maybe that's why I didn't like it. And why it reminded me of Welcome to the Dollhouse. It was a musical Special People's Club.
amy (1:40:02 AM): even when the lead girl started shaking her ass all rap-video-like, it wasn't sexual
caryn (1:40:31 AM): The audience (except for me and Lady Brit) were really into it, though.
amy (1:41:05 AM): a lot of people in the back weren't into it. but i was quite surprised at the enthusiasm. because, as the lead lady said, nyc is not known for its dancing audiences.
caryn (1:42:22 AM): Most of the audience seemed to know all the songs.
amy (1:42:30 AM): ah, the power of the internet. oh i saw that they were selling 13 piece button sets at the merch table for 5 bucks
amy (1:43:04 AM): 13 buttons!
caryn (1:43:12 AM): All Go! Team?
amy (1:43:16 AM): yes!
amy (1:43:26 AM): you could decorate the entire front of your shirt with that
caryn (1:43:34 AM): Or your ass.

Texas Vacation!

2005-03-15T22:13:00.000-08:00

And by "vacation" I really mean "working more than ever."

For the next five days, my physical self will be in Austin, Texas at the industry orgy known as South by Southwest. My cyber self will be here. Check it out! It will be just like More In The Monitor, only with lots more photos, and updated several times a day. But don't worry, I'll be back here next week. I haven't sold out...yet.

Goldie Lookin Chain / MC Lars / Mercury Lounge / Mar. 14, 2005

2005-03-15T00:20:00.000-08:00

Hip-hop is all about keeping it real, right? Rhyming about what you know, where you come from, who you hang out with, etc. Goldie Lookin Chain and MC Lars are doing exactly that: telling the truth about their lives. So why are they considered fakes? Why is 50 Cent rapping about selling crack real, but GLC rapping about remembering the phone number for the taxi service when you’re drunk fake? Or Lars rapping about Edgar Allen Poe? He is an English major at Stanford, after all.

Yeah yeah, I know the answer. It’s because they’re white and they’re silly and some people might say they’re being disrespectful and exploitative. But still, if it’s a choice between the Game (except for that wicked track where he rhymes about Lamaze class) and some boring-ass eat-your-vegetables conscious backpacker crap or GLC and Lars, I’ll take fake rap every time.

Lars is Atom & His Package and Tall, Dark and Handcuffed-era Cex wrapped up in one big, goofy blonde-haired, blue-eyed California hunk. He would make a good pool boy. He was wearing a Run DMC shirt, baggy jeans, a Hot Topic studded belt, an Oakland A’s baseball cap and Simpsons boxers. I know about the boxers because when he began his set with some regal overture music, he raised his fist at the climax, which caused his shirt to lift up, revealing the Simpsons logo. Once you’ve shown the crowd that, there’s no turning back.

A pre-recorded track announced that Lars was really nervous about opening for GLC and playing in front of so many industry types. If that was true, he didn’t show it, rocking the punk-emo-rap-laptop jams from here to kingdom come (or at least to Long Island). He played everything from The Laptop EP and a few I didn’t know, like the one about falling in love with a girl with wicked rhymes (“every Biggie needs a Kim”) and “Rapbeth” which was, um, Macbeth as, um, rap. His set was kickin’, but I can’t wait until he plays Irving Plaza on March 31^st with Bowling for Soup. Suburban pop-punk kids—that’s his true audience. Not hipsters and Welsh people. Somebody get this guy on the Warped Tour pronto!

As for GLC… oh man. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard at a concert since the first time I saw Electric Six. Or maybe Avenged Sevenfold at last year’s Warped Tour. Anyway, GLC are eight Welsh dudes in vintage track suits, ironic (maybe not?) thrift store t-shirts and, of course, fake gold chains. They all have the worst haircuts ever (maybe best?) There were several mullets and neck-beards. One guy looks like John Lennon. He was wearing a headband. Another guy looks like the singer from The Soundtrack of Our Lives. He was wearing a shirt that said URBAN. His rap name is Mystikal. (I guess he didn’t realize that was already taken.)

Topics discussed: Dickens, alchemy, mothers with penises, their hometown of Newport, smoking marijuana, putting tin foil on one’s head in an effort to become a robot, short-term memory loss, roller discos, proving one’s love by tattooing one’s lover’s initials on one’s testicles, taxi cabs, guns don’t kill people, rappers do. Interpolated songs that I recognized: “Maneater” by Hall and Oastes. "Ice Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice. "21 Seconds" by So Solid Crew.

Oh, also, I take that back about the Shadetek crew busting the wackest moves since Elaine on Seinfeld. These guys totally win.

Grime Presents: Bangers & Mash 3 featuring Jammer, D Double E, Ears, Shadetek / Rothko / Mar. 11, 2005

2005-03-13T07:40:00.000-08:00

I never thought I’d actually have fun at a release party for a record put out by Vice, but hey, never say never. (The record, Run the Road, is bonkers by the way, but you knew that.) The crowd was mostly nerds—rock critics, record collectors—with a few model-gorgeous types snake-hipping to the riddims and making the rest of us feel fat and ugly. It was too packed to really dance, though, so we mostly jumped up and down and threw our hands in the air. This resulted in the tall guy standing right behind me hitting my ponytail a lot. But a heightened state of agitation is ideal for experiencing grime, right?

The Shadetek Crew, who host this monthly Bangers & Mash party, were the biggest nerds there. Two pasty white dudes, one in a hoodie and one in a knit cap, busting the wackest moves since Elaine on Seinfeld. But it was actually the best thing ever, because they were SO into the music they were spinning, they didn’t give a shit that a roomful of tastemakers might think they looked stupid.

After midnight, the MCs appeared, special guests from England on their first U.S. tour (but not their first U.S. appearance—that was Thursday night in Philly. For once, Philly scooped NYC!). D Double E: watch out for this kid. He looks like a younger, hungrier DMX and raps with the same intensity. Staring out above the crowd, he fixed his eyes on a point in space and, I swear, didn’t blink for a minute. Jammer was bouncing all over the place, dreadlocks flying and sunglasses coming on and off. Ears, well, I don’t remember too much about him. Must not have had much stage presence.

The beats, oh man, the beats. Gunshots on tin roofs, GameBoys gone cannibalistic, shuddering handclaps. You know the drill. Sometimes I feel like I can’t get enough of this stuff. At one point, they rapped over a loop from Kylie’s “Can’t You Out of My Head.” Hot!

One complaint, though. One BIG complaint. And maybe someone can explain this to me. What is up with the whole play-thirty-seconds-of-a-track-then-stop-it-and-play-it-again thing? They kept doing it! It drove me crazy! Just when a groove would start warming up, they’d stop it! Is there something I’m not getting here? It was definitely on purpose—nobody is THAT bad a DJ, not even me. Arrrgh.

P.S. M.I.A. and Diplo are dating! Thanks for the hot gossip, Dan!

Death From Above 1979 / Bowery Ballroom / Mar. 10, 2005

2005-03-11T00:25:00.000-08:00

These guys are hilarious! Who knew? Not me. They make their grand entrance to the sound of cheeseball MIDI pomp & circumstance, in complete darkness except for a spotlight on their logo. That would be comedy gold in and of itself, but it’s made doubly funny by the fact that both guys were on stage a minute before, setting up their equipment.

The bassist is still rocking the grown-out bowler cut/moustache combo, but the drummer has a faux-hawk now (he acknowledged its fauxness) and his moustache isn’t as extreme. When he takes his shirt off halfway through the set, he looks like a less tattooed version of the drummer from Blink-182.

They talk about the first time they played in NYC, at Luxx a few years ago. They tried to steal an amp from the club but got caught by a security camera. (Could that have been the start of the DFA / DFA feud?) The bassist introduces “Pull Out” by saying, “This song is about not trying very hard not to make babies. It’s about when you love somebody so much you don’t care if you get them pregnant. Which is to say that it’s a love song, not a song about how much fun it is to ejaculate.” He apologizes for getting sick and having to cancel the Mercury Lounge show in January. Two minutes later, a drunk middle-aged woman is pushing her way through the crowd towards the front, screaming “I have a question! Which one of you got sick at the Mercury Lounge!” The drummer tries to have a conversation with the audience, decides it’s useless, then says, “why are we talking about stupid shit? we should be talking about the political situation.”

As for the music, it was exactly what I wanted. Ferociously loud, just the right amount of sloppiness, locked-in grooves all over the place. People went semi-wild during “Romantic Rights”—there was even a crowd-surfer. I figured out why I like the song “Black History Month” so much: the riff sounds just like X’s “The Unheard Music”! Actually, it’s more like the cover of that song that Elastica and Stephen Malkmus did on the Suburbia soundtrack.

The Dirty Projectors, Akron/Family, Other Passengers, R. Stevie Moore / The West End Basement / Mar. 5, 2005

2005-03-07T16:25:00.000-08:00

I guess all that blog buzz paid off, because this show was packed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the West End basement this crowded before. Like, I had to sit on a bass drum next to the mixing board in order to get a good view of Other Passengers. Now that I think about it, that probably wasn’t a very wise idea, since it meant that I was about 6 inches away from the bass player, and he flailed around quite a bit. But he was quite cute and doughy and Ben Gibbard-like, so I didn’t mind.

Watching Other Passengers, I felt the same way that I did seeing the Walkmen at that WBAR show in 2001: these guys are about to blow up, and I can see why, but I just can’t get behind it. Their music is dark and churning and, uh, “angular”… but so are the 500 other bands that send me their CDs every week.

At least OP didn’t physically repulse me like Akron/Family did. Ok folks, this hippie-revival thing has officially gone way too far. These dudes are like Need New Body without the creativity or the grooves, or frat boy Dave Matthews fans trying their hand at “that freak-folk stuff we’ve heard so much about”. Now, I must admit, I only made it through one song. But it was a really long song. The beards and wool caps and Christmas lights and noodling and a cappella campfire singalong and drum circle breakdown were just too much. And this band is signed to Young God! Michael Gira, cut down on the peyote, man, jeez!

The Dirty Projectors are the ones who should be getting all that big-indie label love. Dave’s vocal styling is kind of nails-on-a-chalkboard for me, but I have mucho respect for what he’s doing, and I can see why so many of my friends think he’s a genius. He never really hits notes, he just kind of flutters up and down the scale in this weird, otherworldly falsetto—kind of like Antony or Devendra, but a bit harsher. The last time I saw him play, he had a full band backing him up, complete with horn and string sections, and that was such amazing sensory overload. (Full disclosure: the drummer was my boyfriend.) This time, he was accompanied only by a pair of female backing vocalists and a cellist. It was chamber art-pop to the max. The ladies were insanely hot, too, like naughty secretaries gone Suicide Girl. Somebody told me they were from Finland. Unfortunately, their set was cut short by the West End’s manager, because the concert had allegedly gone over its time limit.

That was probably because R. Stevie Moore played for what seemed like 3 hours. Now I also have mucho respect for R. Stevie, but I only have so much tolerance for a guy croaking off-key ramblings making fun of college students. I know he has some good songs in his massive repertoire; he just didn’t play any of them. R. Stevie did provide the best line of the night, though: “SIT ON MY FACE, GRETCHEN WILSON!”

Plug! Plug! Plug!

2005-03-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

My beloved former college radio station, WBAR, is putting on an awesome show tomorrow night. You should go! I’ll be there!

Here’s the info:

WBAR Barnard College 87.9 FM Fundraiser Bash!

Saturday March 5^th, 8PM

With performances by:

THE DIRTY PROJECTORS (new double cello and upright bass line up)

AKRON/FAMILY (sweet like a cosmic iron wine, YOUNG GOD RECORDS)

R. STEVIE MOORE (yep, that's right)

OTHER PASSENGERS (moody psych rawk)

THE SHOT HEARD ROUND THE WORLD* (indie pop byrds)

@the west end basement, 2911 Broadway

between 113th st and 114th st

take the 1/9 train to 116th St.

18+

price: $5/$3 with student id

time: 8pm

for more information:

call:212-854-6538

web: www.wbar.org

*FULL DISCLOSURE: I am very close friends with the members of this band.

Sleater-Kinney/Mercury Lounge/March 2, 2005

2005-03-03T08:27:00.000-08:00

I have to wonder if all this noise about the new Sleater-Kinney record being loud is really just another subconscious battle of the sexes?

I have The Woods, S-K’s latest, and no doubt it does sound different than their previous stuff. There’s lots of fuzzy bass sounds and rolling psychedelic riffing, but when people say that it’s loud, what do they really mean?

Call the Doctor was loud. Dig Me Out was loud. Hot Rock was loud. All Hands on the Bad One was loud. One Beat was loud. Shit, they are all loud. But loud in a different way. Those previous records featured Corin Tucker’s high vocal shrieking and Carrie Brownstein’s serrated guitar leads. Now, with The Woods, it’s a darker loud, a deeper loud, a meandering loud.

Could people be confusing “loud” with “masculine?” The previous records were loud in an unmistakably feminine, soprano-seeking way. This is a band without a bass player, remember. But this record reaches for the bass. Skuzzy, boy bathroom bass. Corin still keeps up a pitch that’s on top of a mountain, but the music is running down the hill away from it. This is a new dissonance. The new loud.

It was great to hear the just birthed songs unleashed in the relative small environs of the Mercury Lounge. They played most of the The Woods. I’ve seen the band about 15 times in my life, so I can say some certainty that the wacky, dramatic faces Carrie made while singing were entirely new. If she sang the word “crazy” she’d pull this complete lunatic pose. It was sort of punk rock kabuki. Corin is becoming more and more a lush earth mama. During some of the noodling songs, she had her eyes shut and bowed her head just so; for a split second, she almost looked like a hippie…not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Not all of the newer songs trail in the footsteps of Big Brother & The Holding Company. Some have an airy 1970s AM radio feel, like “Modern Girl” which has this bright chorus that goes “My whole life is like a picture of a sunny day.” At first listen, "Modern Girl" sounds like a happy song until you unpack the lyrics and you realize that, duh, if your life is like a picture of a sunny day, well, it’s not officially sunny. They played that song. They also played one of the better songs from The Woods called “Jumpers,” which for some reason reminds me of a Mirah jam---jabs of harmony, brisk singing, marching beat. It sounded really strong live, their voices turning grapes into jelly.

The night ended with an encore of the old favorite You’re No Rock-n-Roll Fun, which I mentally dedicated to my favorite unofficially straight-edged blog partner, one Amy Phillips.

Oh yeah, the band before them, Pela, was mostly unremarkable except for this one lyric of theirs that struck me as outrageously poetic: "You have a fragile face in a public place."

Breaking News

2005-03-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

Caryn Brooks and The Amy Phillips have been at odds for a few weeks as they exchanged long distance jabs but on Monday night (February 28), the beef between the two former collaborators escalated. MTV.com reports that a 24 year-old woman from Portland, Oregon, was shot in the leg outside of New York's WQHT as Caryn Brooks was conducting an on-air interview.

According to a post by The Amy Phillips’ friend Daphne Carr on the blogger’s The Music Issue website, The Phillips and her entourage were attempting to enter the radio station to confront Brooks but they were denied admission and an altercation ensued. According to Carr, a member of their entourage was allegedly shot by someone affiliated with Brooks and they are now holding Brooks responsible.

Brooks, who was on air at the time, abruptly stopped her interview and was ushered out of the back exit of the radio station once news of the shooting reached the studio.

Before the interview was interrupted, Brooks explained that The Phillips was no longer a member of More in the Monitor because she was disloyal. The blogger was referring to comments made by The Phillips on Saturday (February 26), that she didn't want to be involved in Brooks’ beef with bloggers Fluxblog, Douglas Wolk, and Ultragrrrl.

Brooks also said that The Phillips should stop saying More In the Monitor and added, "She thinks she's doing me a favor when she says that."

Later Monday night, shots were also fired outside of Blogger. The company hosts Matos, Anthony is Right, One Louder, and Daphne Carr. No one was hurt in the incident.

No arrests have been made in either case.

Pixeltan / Rothko / Feb. 25, 2005

2005-02-27T22:27:00.000-08:00

Right before I headed downtown on Friday, I finished writing a piece about Shonen Knife for Willamette Week. So I was thinking a lot about American indie rock’s fascination with Asian femininity. That, coupled with Ann’s reading, put me in ultra girl police mode.

Pixeltan’s singer, an attractive woman of Asian descent, took the stage in a tight, spandex-y, jungle-animal-print top, with a chain around her neck. Not a bling chain, but a big, heavy chain, like what you’d use to tie a pitbull to a fence. Her vocalizations consisted of mostly grunts, howls and moans rather than words. So I’m thinking: what’s going on here? Is she making a statement about how Asian women are treated like caged animals? Or is she doing it because it looks and sounds cool, and this is what the audience wants? I don’t know. But it all made me a bit uncomfortable.

The two other dudes in the band—Hisham Bharoocha, formerly of Black Dice, on drums, and a bassist in rhinestone-embroidered nudie suit pants—played Liquid Liquid grooves that all sounded the same and melted together into one big blahhhh. I really like Pixeltan’s two songs on the DFA comp, but they just couldn’t sustain my interest for a full set.

Kid606 was spinning acid house next, but we left. My bag was too full of free magazines and DFA/Capitol schwag for dancing to be any fun anyway.

Ann Powers with Katherine Lanpher / Lolita / Feb. 25, 2005

2005-02-27T22:19:00.000-08:00

I want to be Ann Powers when I grow up. She’s Superwoman! Highly respected pop critic, museum curator, mom, best-selling author… and she still takes the time to mentor all us little rock writer girls. We showed up in force for her reading at the Cupcake Series at Lolita, a bar on the Lower East Side, and we learned all about what it was like to write a book with Tori Amos. For example, Tori didn’t want to include the chapter about her public image. And she’s proud to call herself a feminist (which, as Ann pointed out, is quite rare for female musicians to do these days).

Ann also read a short, sweet piece about singing “Edelweiss” to her daughter, as well as a passage from her 2000 memoir/cultural history Weird Like Us: My Bohemian America, in which she talked about how progressives have to protect their values from the brewing right-wing conservative storm. Journalist Katherine Lanpher, who I’m familiar with as the co-host of Al Franken’s show on Air America, asked Ann questions about making the switch from writer to curator, being a mom, and how she goes about successfully explaining pop music’s eccentricities to people who aren’t music geeks. She also made some remark implying that all male rock critics are cool hipsters, to which Ann replied, “Have you ever actually met any of them?” (Aww, snap!)

My only complaint: not a cupcake in sight! How dare they call themselves the Cupcake Series and lead me on like that?!

The 22-20s/Southpaw/Feb 22, 2005

2005-02-26T15:14:00.000-08:00

by Abi Cameron

The 22-20s look like the cast of Reservoir Dogs with better haircuts. They play a thudding, full-body impact, non-stop wall of gritty, supped-up neo-blues for 40 minutes – one song screeching into the next, transforming the 9 p.m. beer-nuzzling crowd into the 9:05 p.m. party. It’s dirty. It’s loud. The sound guy ran around his booth attempting to sooth the whining sound-system. The bass throbs down the stage, across the floor and up my legs when singer/guitarist/songwriter Martin Trimble’s first lines slam through the air and hit me. I want to dance. I want to make out with…somebody.

Bassist Glen Bartrup, tall and emaciated, is the focus of every press camera (and my point-n'-shoot) in the place. He struts around the stage like a young Mick Jagger, wrapping Trimble in his trailing cable and seemingly taunting him into an onstage battle of Who’s-The-Bigger-Rockstar. But this is not a choreographed rock show. There are no looping-“rockstar” moves. None of the usual “I’m-so-out-of-control” jumps and slides and jives. They create a show one beat at a time. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt like I was seeing four guys playing their hearts out. This cranking energy is not lost on the crowd. Trimble sneers back. Bartrup gyrates into his bass and writhes in fits of ecstasy.

Tumbling bass and drum syncopations, like sneakers in a dryer, make me feel like a Mexican jumping bean. I just don’t know which way to jump first. Instead, I’m carried away on the rolling, gospel-kissed organs that they slather on top of it all. All the while, Trimble slurs and growls and prances his way through one incendiary song after another. With the best use of syncopated rhythms since 'Cry Me A River', the 22-20s are a hybrid of Interpol and Slim Harpo.

Formed three years ago and named after the Delta bluesman, Skip James'
piano-led '22-20 Blues,' the Lincolnshire 22-20's are not what is rolling off the current garage-rock conveyer belt. They play fast bluesy rock. This isn't your White Stripes novelty-brand blues; this is the real thing - they've got heavy, dirty bass guitar, and enviable guitar maneuvers. The bulk of their set is composed of catchy, filthy songs that embed themselves in your cranium on impact. They actually have something to hang their hat on – white man's blues. It's the same blues that Eric Clapton brought to British music in the late 60s, Bowie twisted into one-blue-eyed soul in the 80s and the Black Keys have brought into the 21st century.

They have the obligatory garage-rock Ode to a Fucked-up Relationship ("Messed Up") and the standard Ye Olde Apology Song ("22 Days") but they douse these less than original themes in seeping rhythms and noise so full and distinct that I don’t care. You just want to see what happens next.

The licks, hooks and chops are all there and you get the sense that they are playing from a need to get something off their chests and it works. If you’re shooting for the blues as white boy brits, you’ve got to really mean it and persuade an audience you really mean it. The 22-20’s are very convincing. They play straight-forward blues-rock that you could probably hear coming out of any dive bar in Mississippi, but the 22-20s take what could be a languid, bluesy jam and pound you over the head with it. Again. And again. And I still wanted more.

Perhaps the 22-20's best song is "Devil In Me." An exhausting bass line, rock-hard drums and lyrics lifted from Robert Johnson's diaries propel this sweat-inducer from its actual four-plus minutes into what seems like a minute forty-five. This is the one to put on a tape for an ex-boyfriend to convince him that you've turned evil and hard post break-up.

The show ends when they just simply stop. The stage is empty in minutes. There has been no banter between the band and the audience during the show. Nothing is said when they leave the stage. This is not a band for small talk. And I could care less.

Surprise

2005-02-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

Hey, look who's filling in on Fluxblog today!

Keren Ann / Tonic / Feb. 17, 2005

2005-02-19T13:57:00.000-08:00

“I kind of want to go kill puppies right now,” Daphne says.

“Next she’s going to do a Junior Senior cover!” Nick says.

“This music sounded a lot better when it was playing in the background while I was doing my taxes,” I say.

Alan Astor / Sin-e / Feb. 17, 2005

2005-02-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I’m watching somebody perform, I think “Wow, I am so glad that this person found music, because he/she would probably be eating barbecued babies if he/she hadn’t.”

Alan Astor is one of those people. Big orange hair, scruffy stubble. Low-slung baggy jeans with boxers hanging out, an open dashiki/robe-thing exposing a hairy chest, a tangle of necklaces, one of which looked like a Jewish star. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have any shoes on. He sang along with pre-recorded backing tracks (cornball glitchy ‘80s synth-pop wackiness) and occasionally played the saxophone. His voice and stage presence are very “I’m auditioning for A Chorus Line.” Lots of Christ poses and sweeping hand gestures. So bad it’s good.

Westminster Dog Show / Madison Square Garden / Feb. 15, 2005

2005-02-16T09:28:00.000-08:00

Top Five Reasons Why The Westminster Dog Show Is Better Than Most Rock Concerts

1. Dogs don’t jam or play boring new songs.

2. Dogs are cuter than most members of rock bands.

3. No aching feet or ringing in the ears.

4. Seventeen corgis running in a circle brings more joy than an encore.

5. When you go backstage, you get to pet the performers without being called a slut.

The Strangeways Glee Club/Floyd, NY Bar in Brooklyn/ Feb.13, 2005

2005-02-13T23:44:00.000-08:00

Is it fair? Shall the critique be unleashed? These people were volunteers after all. Aid workers gathered to lead the lovelorn in the singing of songs by the Smiths.

The answer is right there. Fairness? It is but a fantasy in the world governed by Messrs Morrissey and Marr. Nature’s a language, can’t you read?

So the Strangeways Glee Club was but a group of amateurs. They had to pluck the lyrics off of sheets of papers. The dude on the acoustic guitar couldn’t get it right. One of the singers looked like a zippy fourth grade teacher.

But you want an academic discussion about The Authentic, huh, bigmouth? It’s in the pub. It’s two friends sharing stories about The Smiths while singing songs by The Smiths as led by a community group manhandling songs by The Smiths. All on the eve of Valentine’s Day.

Yes, it was a crime that “How Soon is Now” was not part of the evening’s program, but do you blame them? Do you know anyone who can play that song? And is it their fault that at least one person in the room was crushed that “Ask” remained unfurled? How could they know that the bucktoothed girl from Luxemburg is a specter that haunts my, er, her everyday existence? These petty grievances seemed not to bother the chortling choir members dressed in black.

And thank goodness for that. Self-absorption was the drink of the day and everyone there was soused on the stuff. Together.

The Fed Bash / Lerner Hall, Columbia University / Feb. 12, 2005

2005-02-13T23:35:00.000-08:00

It’s 11:30 on a Saturday night, and I’m standing on a dance floor in the basement of the student center at Columbia. Girls in fishnets, mini-skirts and pointy bras dance with boys in leather pants and wife beaters. Scotty the Blue Bunny is trotting around terrorizing homophobes, the S&M club is tying people up, bottles of Rolling Rock cost two dollars and the cookies shaped like penises and vaginas are free, as are the condoms and lube. Lights are flashing, balloons are popping. The members of the band on stage are all wearing fez. The guy who sings backup and plays the melodica, maracas, kazoo and harmonica, is sporting biker shorts with what looks like several cucumbers stuffed in the crotch. My friend Matt, who is the guitarist, has fashioned a shirt out of an orange plastic Halloween Adventure shopping bag. Their songs have titles like “Anal Baby” and “Poopy In Your Pussy” and lyrics like “Morroco! Morrocco! Morrocco!” and “Sweet fruity Pez! Sweet fruity Pez! Sweet fruity Pez!”

I am having no fun at all.

When I was in college, I was an editor at The Fed, Columbia’s humor paper. We tried to be like The Onion or something, but failed miserably, mostly because our issues were too long and published too frequently, so we had to stuff them with crap. (I still consider this one of the best things I’ve ever written, though.) Also, most of the staff members were drunks. My friends, yes, but drunks nonetheless.

Once a year—sometimes twice a year—we threw this big party, the Fed Bash, to raise funds and generate publicity. The Fed Bash was always the highlight of my semester, not just because of all the work we put into it, but because it was one of the few times that I could feel comfortable getting silly and wild. Like, I used to wear a dog collar and pleather thigh-high boots to this thing. But there I was on Saturday feeling all out of place in my corduroys and hoodie, impatiently waiting for the band to get offstage so I could go home and get some work done. I looked around at all these people I used to be so close with and I just felt lost.

The DJ dropped Annie’s “Heartbeat,” and I started hopping up and down and singing along, but nobody else seemed to care. Then I remembered: these are normal people, not crazy music freaks like me. They don’t care about Pazz and Jop statistics and Pitchfork ratings and M.I.A. mash-ups. They don’t want to talk about whether the original version of “Heartbeat” is better than the Maurice Fulton remix. And neither did I when I was in college. Ok, that’s not completely true. I’ve been a crazy music freak since I was twelve. But at least when I was in college, my mind wasn’t completely consumed by music like it is now. I thought about literature and America and hegemony and structuralism and putting out a newspaper and maintaining a radio station. And boys. Which isn’t to say I don’t think about boys now, because I do. All the time!

Argh. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I do know that I’m realizing that part of my life is over. And that this is the sort of blog post I thought I’d never write. So I apologize.

M.I.A. / Knitting Factory / Feb. 5, 2005

2005-02-07T01:03:00.000-08:00

No doubt about it: she was lip-synching. I was standing way up front, pushed against the side wall, so just about the only thing I could see was her mouth. Do I care? Not at all. (Do I care that Ashlee Simpson lip-syncs? Nope.) When a lady is rocking a blue-and-gold loose-fitting shirt/pants combo that my grandmother would wear, and she is rhyming about text-messaging and imperialism, I am happy no matter what. Even if I am surrounded by people with all sorts of cameras blocking my view, and I have stood around waiting for an hour and a half in sardine-like conditions, and my digestive system is in a state of rebellion, and I am falling-over tired from staying up all night writing about Keane. When M.I.A. says put your hands up, you put your hands up.

It took her a little while to warm up, but once she got into it (around the time of the costume change into a neon yellow and pink combo that would have looked good on a Jem doll), she was sweating charisma. It would be hard to fuck up over those ridonculous beats, but still, she looked so happy up there, it was contagious. The crowd seemed genuinely into it, too. Not all “I’m here because I’m supposed to be here.” Except for this little kid in the balcony, who looked like he was about 8 years old and wanted to go to sleep.

On the subway ride home, this guy Tony told me that he had been standing next to an overweight middle-aged couple near the front of the stage, and the woman gave the man a blow job in the middle of the concert. I think that is a bigger and better endorsement of M.I.A. than anything anybody could ever write about her.

Speaking of which: here is a list of all the critics/bloggers I spotted/hung out with at the show (because I know you people care): Matthew Perpetua, Sasha Frere-Jones, Julianne Shepherd, Jon Caramanica, Elliot Aronow, Tricia Romano, Nick Sylvester, Maura Johnston, Sia Michel, J. Edward Keyes, Simon Reynolds, Jessica Hopper, John Seroff, Jesse Fox Mayshark, Shirley Beans, Kelefa Sanneh, Mike Barthel. And Caryn Brooks and Daphne Carr, duh. I also saw Fancy from Fannypack, who says some very nice things about my boobs in the next issue of Mean magazine.

P.S. Caryn and I were supposed to do an IM review of this, but she fell asleep while I was herding people out of my apartment after my Super Bowl party.

P.P.S. Fuck the Patriots.

Keane, The Zutons / Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA / Jan. 4, 2005

2005-02-04T22:57:00.000-08:00

Remember yesterday, when I said that Philadelphia luuuvs adult-contemporary? I wasn’t joking. I mean, who are these clowns? Did they have a huge hit or TV commercial that I missed?* Were they the musical guest on a secret O.C. episode I didn’t know about? Why is this enormous venue packed full of people who know all the words to their songs? Oh, wait a second… WXPN plays them a lot, apparently. Now it all makes sense.

You know what else Philadelphia loves? FOOTBALL. If you combine the two (adult-contemporary and football, that is), people go apeshit. Oh my god, when Keane dedicated some b-side to the Eagles (the guy said “ee-gles” instead of “iggles”—obviously not a native!), I thought the roof was gonna cave in.

Openers the Zutons dedicated a song to the Eagles too, but no apeshitting ensued. This is because the Zutons aren’t adult-contemporary. They are more zany-bar-band-with-Lora-Logic-on-sax. Although they’re not nearly as zany as they, or the British press, would like you to think. I expected costumes and onstage brawls and objects being thrown into the audience, but all I got was some fevered hopping up and down. The saxophonist is adorable, though. She wasn’t wearing any shoes.

*My mom (who is now the proud owner of the Keane CD Interscope sent me) tells me that they are, indeed, in a commercial.

Kaki King, Sonya Kitchell / Tin Angel, Philadelphia, PA / Feb. 3, 2005

2005-02-03T22:26:00.000-08:00

Little-known fact: Philadelphia LOVES adult-contemporary music. Seriously. Every white person in this city owns Come Away With Me. Every black person owns Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds, Vol. 1. (A lot of people even own both!) Philly loves adult-contemporary so much, it recently erected a shiny new temple to it. Of course, the old temples are still in business, too. Like the Tin Angel, where over a hundred people trekked to on a cold Thursday night in February to see two not-famous-at-all women play acoustic guitar. Would that happen in New York? Hell no. Because NYC does not love adult-contemporary like Philly does.

The opener, Sonya Kitchell, is 15 years old like Mischa Barton is 18 years old, at least when she’s singing. She sounds like what the Maggie May in Lester Bangs’ short story based on the song would sound like if she sang adult-contemporary music. Like she hasn’t seen sunlight in the past thirty years because she hasn’t left her barstool. But when Sonya’s not singing, she is all giggly and awkward and apologetic. As she should be, because she’s 15 and that is what real live 15 year olds act like. Also, I could see her potbelly peeking out from under her J. Crew cardigan, and that made me happy because I, too, have a potbelly.

Kaki King—holy shit. She is the Conor Oberst of acoustic finger-picking. The John Fahey of hot girls. The, uh, Ywngie Malmsteen of adult-contemporary. Girlfriend rips on her axe like it stole her man, but then she starts giving it a massage. Her fingers are tiny little robot warriors mowing down every guy who ever gave a girl a dirty look when she walked into a guitar store. And when she finishes a song, she rolls her eyes and tosses her hair like “whatever, that was easy.” She knows that every person in the audience wants to have her babies, so she gets onstage in a frumpy sweater and big purple furry scarf/collar thing. But after three songs, she takes the sweater off, and she’s wearing a see-through tank top and black bra! The Tin Angel is flooded with drool.

Worship this woman, motherfuckers.

Arcade Fire / Webster Hall / February 1, 2005

2005-02-02T19:23:00.000-08:00

Reviewed by Jason Gross

Thrilling as it is to see the next hot act strut its stuff on stage, it's not fun when they're not ready for the spotlight. Montreal's Arcade Fire has gotten mountains of critical praise heaped on them (and made their hometown a musical hotspot) and to their credit, it's warranted. One big stumbling block is Win Butler's singing, in the tradition of strained high Canadian vocals: more Geddy Lee than Neil Young or Joni Mitchell. Once you get past that, there's beautiful songwriting, soaring melodies and all those other great things that pop music is supposed to supply.

Some shuffling went on as to where they were going to play. First the Bowery Ballroom and now the bigger space of Webster Hall- it's owned by the same company so they naturally figured that once the band blew up, it would be better to move them to a bigger space and sell more tickets. Needless to say, the Webster show would have sold out in five minutes even if they weren't honoring the Bowery tickets. No surprise that many frigid college teens lined up outside begging for an extra ticket.

Granted that with most clubs, you have to give their start-times for bands a grain of salt but sometimes this gets ridiculous. Man Man went on a 1/2 hour later (acceptable) doing a mixture of the Residents, Uz Jsme Doma, Zappa and hillbilly blues- hey, it was definitely DIFFERENT and engaging as such. But then there was an hour gap to set up for the Fire. Then, they decided to put on a friend of theirs to sing us a few tunes for another 1/2 hour. I have nothing against fiddle players using pedal loops but if you're going to make a crowd stand around for hours, you should have the decency to show up and play. By this time, my girlfriend and I felt obliged to heckle (something I almost never do) and we weren't the only ones.

After a mercifully brief gap between the fiddler and band (including a clapping chant from the crowd to get the show started), AF finally graced us with their presence. It turns out that they were on the Conan O'Brien show earlier and that's why they were late. Just so you know, that show tapes in the same borough of Manhattan where Webster Hall resides and there's about a 1/2 hour cab ride between the two places. Also, just to note, late night TV programs actually tape in the late afternoon. Unless the band when to JFK airport for dinner and a nap, this still doesn't add up. My theory: they went out for some beers after the taping.

OK, to still give them the benefit of the doubt, this did start out well with them trouncing all over "Neighborhood #2." But it was pretty much downhill from there- the band looked and sounded tired. Ditto the audience. Once the witching hour hit, people started streaming out (this was a weeknight). Let's just say the people splitting didn't have smiles on their faces or songs in their heart. My girlfriend had to similarly leave, not exactly thrilled with the show. I ran into Jay Ruttenberg from Time Out and sure enough, his girlfriend had to leave also because of the late hour. Also, he said he was pretty under whelmed by the show. Butler noted to the crowd numerous times that they were a little too quiet, first jokingly and then a little more testy- when a singer can see how listless the audience is, that's not a good sign. Things did pick up near the end when they finished off with a medley of "Neighborhood #3" and "Rebellion"- it was so good that you wish the rest of the show was like that. By then, I was too worn out to see/hear what the encore was going to be like but I'd wager that they throw out their latest album opener "Neighborhood #1."

As they say, don't hate the player, hate the game. I heard a broadcast of a show that they did last October at the Museum of TV and Radio and they sounded great. I would say snatch up their album from last year if you haven't already (one of the best releases of 2004) and go to see them if they're not taping a program before the concert. After-show backstage banter: "Hey guys... uh... crappy show but wow, we were on national TV!"

The Arcade Fire/Webster Hall/Feb 1, 2005

2005-02-02T08:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Diary,

Ohmigod, last night I got to see the Arcade Fire. They…are…so…CUTE. Every single one of the hundred band members, completely fuckable. Even that singer guy Win who sorta summons the je ne sais quoi of Rocky Horror Show’s Riff Raff. Win, if this diary ever becomes public, please know that this is totally a compliment.

But I have to confess. Can I confess to you, sweet receptacle of my innermost thoughts? I hate them. To death.

See, during the whole show, they all kept switching instruments with the laissez faire of a pre-schooler running from game to game in the basement rec room. The hopped from keyboards to drums to accordion to bass to tambourine. They made it seem easy. Diary, I have tried to play one instrument in my life and have failed miserably. How do the kids in the Arcade Fire think it makes those of us not blessed with the nexus of creative and math smarts feel? The answer is dumb and bitter.

But then again, it’s hard to stay mad. You see, they all line up and shout the ebullient choruses at you, almost like a dare. Come on, join us. We are singing at YOU. Double triple dare you!

And then different players act out these dorky tableaux during songs: the two violin players start pretending that they’re having a vicious lover’s quarrel, a man in a motorcycle helmet starts pummeling the dude with the accordion, two of ‘em start waltzing. This is strictly study hall goofs and they’re unabashed about it. Know why? These guys are having fun. You just can’t hate them.

Diary, know what else I feel really dumb about? I think I was standing behind David Bowie the whole time and didn’t even know it.

See, I got a VIP pass because I’m writing about the show for another outlet besides you. Don’t be mad, ok? Why they gave me a VIP, I’ll never know. I had fully planned to be with the hoi polloi. I had dressed accordingly: tons of light layers to shed as I got hotter and hotter packed in with the masses. I got there early.

So it was a surprise, this VIP thing. When I entered the VIP balcony, I noticed that all the good places were these tables against the railings that had reserved signs on them. Since I was so early, no one was sitting at them and I picked the best one and sat down, thinking the person would ask me to move when they got there.

Well, just before the AF hit the stage they got there.

A huge burly man swooped in and shouted, “This table is reserved for INSERT LADY’s NAME HERE, move away from the area.” He was really mean. I was thinking, “Who the hell is this lady?” I had never heard of her. She was over forty and a little jangley.

I wasn’t going to let them get the best of me, no way. So, I had to give up my seat. No biggie. Didn’t mean I was going to abandon my post. So I stood behind her date, a dorky guy with a British accent. Diary, please believe that this man had no Bowie aura whatsoever. He seemed like this lady’s date and was dragged to the show. Granted, I mostly saw the back of his head. But still.

I got into the show, but this huge bodyguard stood right behind me the entire time, practically pressing into my back. Who the hell was this lady who needed a body guard all night? They quickly went backstage before the show to meet the band. When they wanted to leave, the lady nodded to the burly guard who practically lifted me up and moved me out of the way.

When I left the show I called Agent Amy Phillips to do some internet recon and look up the lady's name. Amy came up with this. Duh. I am dumb. Still, I gotta say, in person Bowie comes off as a dad. A dad who was into the show. As was I.

All said, a good night Diary. A good night.

Bright Eyes, CocoRosie, Tilly and the Wall / Academy of Music, Philadelphia, PA / Jan. 28, 2005

2005-01-29T20:21:00.000-08:00

Before Bright Eyes even took the stage, a young girl sitting two rows back vomited all over the red velvet seats. I felt sad and embarrassed as her friends helped her out of the theater, and later when an usher came to clean it up. I know how it feels to be so nervous and excited about something (finally seeing your rock star crush in the flesh, maybe?) that you puke. The girl and her friends didn’t return, and neither did the five Abercrombie-and-lacrosse-team-sweatshirt-wearing guys sitting directly behind us, probably because their seats were soaking wet. I was looking forward to hearing the jocks’ commentary, to discovering exactly why they were at this concert. If Conor’s songs can get through to dudes who would have called me a scary lesbian witch in high school, then I have hope for this country. (Although we still have a lot of work to do: during CocoRosie’s set, Daphne overheard one of them saying, “Cool, that chick is making blowjob noises.”)

Tilly and the Wall—in case you don’t know—are five wholesome, adorable Omaha kids who play sunny indie pop, and their gimmick is that all the percussion is a girl tap dancing. I like it, but I’m a sucker. They were much tighter than when I saw them at the Mercury Lounge last summer, and, of course, the sound was much better. So the complete lack of low end wasn’t so apparent.

When I saw CocoRosie at South By Southwest last year, it was two white girls and a bunch of crazy instruments seemingly found in somebody’s attic. David Sitek from TV on the Radio beatboxed on one song. This time, CocoRosie was two white girls, a bunch of crazy instruments seemingly found in somebody’s attic and a large black man wearing a Native American headdress. He beatboxed on every song except the last one, during which he rapped in French and tap danced (accompanied by the Tilly tap dancer). I am not making this up.

How could Bright Eyes top that? They couldn’t. Or maybe I’m just jaded because this was my seventh time seeing Bright Eyes. (Is that weird?) Conor and his six-piece band played mostly stuff from I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, along with “Bowl of Oranges,” “Method Acting” and holyfuckingshit “A Scale, A Mirror and Those Indifferent Clocks” (yes, I’m a Fevers and Mirrors freak). He did “Lua” and “When the President Talks to God” solo-acoustic stylee and got all “rowdy” on the show-closing “Road to Joy”. They played for about an hour, and I think they wanted to play more, but some beefy guy came on stage right at 11:00pm and whispered in Conor’s ear, after which Conor said “Due to reasons beyond our control, this is our last song. They have to set up for The Nutcracker.” The funny part is that the last time I set foot in the Academy of Music, it was probably to see that very ballet when I was eight years old.

Personally, I’m happy that Conor is getting all this attention. He deserves it. I hope he sells millions of records and never leaves Saddle Creek, sells millions of concert tickets and never plays a Clear Channel venue.

After the concert, Daphne and I headed over to Transit for the rock and roll dance party Making Time. Death From Above 1979 were supposed to play but had to cancel due to illness or something (coincidentally, they were also supposed to play with Man Man in NYC on Thursday!) But it didn’t matter. Who needs a Canadian noise-metal band when you’ve got drunk Nick Sylvester waving devil horn hand signs above his head, jumping up and down yelling “WHOOOOO!!!” like he’s at an AC/DC concert every time the DJ spins a song he likes?

Man Man / Mercury Lounge / Jan. 27, 2005

2005-01-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

Need New Body: crazy dudes in crazy outfits with crazy facial hair playing crazy instruments in a crazy Zappa/Holy Modal Rounders/hippie drum circle kinda way. You’d think that formula would be unique, right? WRONG. Welcome to Philly, bitch. We got some wicked drugs here. Our sports teams never win, our school system was taken over by a private company, our subway runs on only one street and the mayor spent so much money on a wireless internet pipe dream, there wasn’t any left over to pay for snowplows. Why do you think we get so incredibly high we decide it’s a good idea to write songs with choruses like “meow meow meow meow meow” and “moustache moustache moustache moustache”? (That is, if our “songs” even have “choruses.”)

Which isn’t to say I don’t like Man Man. I mean, I like Need New Body; ergo, I like Man Man. The four band members wore all white. One guy had a skeleton sketched onto his shirt (just like the suit jacket Win Butler wore at the Bowery Ballroom! Now the whole Man-Man-opening-for-Arcade-Fire thing makes perfect sense! Oh no wait, it still doesn’t.) Instruments played/manmanhandled included trumpet, slide whistle, melodica, keyboards, umbrella and lots and lots of percussion. Animal masks were worn. I burst out laughing several times.

Coming tomorrow: More in the Monitor reviews Bright Eyes… for the third time!

Colin Meloy / Fez / Jan. 24, 2005

2005-01-25T20:48:00.000-08:00

amy: i love doughy boys.
amy: now, colin seemed a bit less doughy than the last time i saw the decemberists.
amy: do you think this symbolizes imminent heartthrobitude? because i remember thinking the same thing when the postal service toured. and then BOOM, all of a sudden, ben gibbard = major heartthrob
caryn: He's not that doughy. I have to say, I kept staring at him thinking, wow, he wears a sweatshirt so freakin' well. That's always what I think I look like when I wear a sweatshirt, but I really look like John Goodman on the Roseanne show.
caryn: He also has a very, very sharp jaw line which contrasts very sweetly with his nerdy glasses. Kinda like Superman. Ladies love cool Colin.
amy: oh man, the ladies next to us were literally swooning. but how could you not?
caryn: I know. Breakin' hearts. Losing bikes. It's Portland's own Colin Meloy. Now, I don't want to get a reputation for always being about the Bad Audience Member (and I do think it might behoove (sp?) us to create another blog just for this purpose) but that lady at the next table is definitely in the running to win Most Annoying Person at an Intimate New York Rock Show. I know you didn't get to see/hear as much as I did, so let me recount.
amy: all i heard was when she yelled out "GRACE CATHEDRAL PIER!!"
amy: and colin was like "uhh... you mean grace cathedral hill?"
amy: and she was like "NO, PIER!!!"
caryn: So this lady. She looked normal, see. She had hipster glasses and hipster bangs and a hipster stripped shirt. But she was a wolf in hipster's clothing.
caryn: She may have been drunk and I may have detected a Slavic accent on her.
caryn: So what she did is this: there is generally always a person who shouts out things to the performer at a show. Usually this person is an uber-fan and it's annoying and sometimes endearing. So she was shouting out unnecessary things.
caryn: Such as...when Colin asked us to stomp our feet to create percussion for a song and then accused us of stopping to stomp, she shouted loudly (after a series of shouting loudly) "I didn't stop." And he wryly replied, "Of course you didn't."
amy: by the way, the song was "los angeles, i’m yours"
caryn: Now, fine, so she's a shouter. But, conversely, she talked really, really, really loud DURING the songs. A woman at our table (one of the swooners) stood up and snapped at her and mimed her to shut her trap.
caryn: Later, a guy sitting at her table looks at her and says simply "Could you please shut the fuck up?"
amy: what was her response?
caryn: She looked hurt, crazy and depressed. But did that stop her? No. Of all her crimes, however, this final atrocity may be the worst. She attempted to lift a candle, perhaps to hurl at Colin as a form of showing her love and support, and CAUGHT HER HAIR ON FIRE!! It smelled like ass. Colin even was like, "what's that smell." Tsk, tsk,tsk.
caryn: Okay, but enough about her. Let's talk about the music.
amy: other decemberists hits played included: "myla goldberg", "red right ankle", "my mother was a chinese trapeze artist", "apology song"
amy: there were also several selections from the upcoming album "picaresque." when he began playing "the sporting life," everybody clapped
amy: and he was like "you know this song? how do you know this song?" very suspiciously
amy: this leads me to the conclusion that the audience was comprised entirely of journalists and pirates.
caryn: The song he wrote to his friend whose bicycle he lost was awesome. I wish a friend would disappoint me greatly and then write a great song about it.
amy: after he played that, he remarked that the bicycle in question was eventually returned to its owner. but then loaded onto a bicycle rack on the back of colin's car. and then smashed into another car.
caryn:Agreed about the journos and plunderers. Now, Colin seems like a sweet, well-adjusted man. Yet, if you counted all the dead bodies in his songs, he'd be creeping up into Johnny Cash/Eminem territory.
amy: yes, but unlike johnny cash and eminem, he didn't kill all of them. it's more haley joel osment territory.
caryn: Do we know that?
amy: well, in one of the songs HE's the dead guy.
caryn: Colin Meloy definitely sees dead people.
amy: there is this totally awesome epic song about seeking revenge for causing his mother to die of consumption, so he sails the high seas looking for the sailor and then they have a showdown after a whale kills everybody else on the boat
caryn: So Colin did a few Morrissey covers. What did you think?
amy: well, uh, they sounded like decemberists songs. since i didn't know the originals.
caryn: I kinda wish he did more known Morrissey. He stuck with weird b-sides and stuff. I mean, Colin was meant to sing "You're the One for Me, Fatty."
amy: YES YES YES YES
amy:ok, can we talk about the last song of the night?
amy: never in my life did i think a cover of cheap trick’s “southern girls” could bring me to tears
caryn: I loved how he introduced it as an old folk song. It was very sweet.
amy: much like how he introduced "my mother was a chinese trapeze artist" as "an autobiographical song"
amy: also sweet: when the crowd sang along to the "i know i need unique new york" line in “myla goldberg”
caryn: I wish Colin would write a blatantly Portland song. I kinda teared up when he mentioned the Multnomah County Library. I could see that library from my old office.

amy: so, how much do you want to punch the guy who reviewed the tegan and sara album for pitchfork today?

The Dears / Mercury Lounge / Jan. 15, 2005

2005-01-15T23:10:00.000-08:00

I was on the fence about the Dears—except for 2 amazing songs on the Protest EP—so I went to this hoping that the live experience would help me make up my mind. And it did. The verdict is: eh.

It bothers me when a band has only one female member and she’s the keyboardist. (Is it bad that it bothers me?) The Dears have two female members, and both of them are keyboardists. They both stood there looking pretty, pouting and not moving. The drummer’s tongue lolled around outside of his mouth while he played. The front man wore a ski jacket and had a copy of Black Like Me in his back pocket. At one point, he and the other guitarist stood very, very close to each other while playing. It looked like they were going to kiss.

There was a lot of delay on the vocals. The keyboards weren’t very loud. Of course.

I left after five songs. I was on the subway longer than I was at the show.

Tegan and Sara/Bowery Ballroom/Jan 12, 2005

2005-01-13T20:29:00.000-08:00

Since Amy and I are both reviewing this show for separate publications, we decided to publish our thoughts as hashed on IM rather than a traditional review.

caryn (10:09:07 PM): So T&S. did you like the show?
amy (10:09:34 PM): yes i did
amy (10:09:44 PM): they are very talented and very adorable
caryn (10:09:58 PM): did it change the way you viewed them? do you regret not pazzjopping them?
amy (10:10:13 PM): no
amy (10:10:20 PM): i still like everything i voted for better
amy (10:10:34 PM): but i realized that i love that "i hear noises" song
caryn (10:10:39 PM): I regret that you do not regret pazzjopping them.
amy (10:10:47 PM): haha
amy (10:10:56 PM): see, i can't pazzjop their cuteness or their stage banter
caryn (10:11:26 PM): i really think that's just a small part of it. i think they are excellent song writers/singers/musicians, the whole schmear.
amy (10:12:46 PM): but i still think ciara, eamon, jason forrest, etc. made better music than they did last year
amy (10:12:56 PM): though i agree with you
caryn (10:13:01 PM): You'll probably hate this, but i've compared them to Elvis Costello, Tom Petty and Fleetwood Mac. And I really believe it.
amy (10:13:18 PM): definitely more the lindsay side of fleetwood than the stevie side.
caryn (10:41:09 PM): So do you think the guy standing next to me was the most annoying man ever at a rock show? I'd like to nominate him for the VV Best of Issue.
amy (10:41:29 PM): no, i've experienced way more annoying people
amy (10:41:40 PM): like, people falling on me from drunkenness and yelling to each other throughout the show
amy (10:41:58 PM): and spilling stuff on me
caryn (10:42:40 PM): Ok, here's why this guy is worse.
caryn (10:43:04 PM): 1) Stood too close to girls, including me, as a way to cop a feel.
caryn (10:43:22 PM): 2) Shouted sexual things at Tegan and Sara, which was just gross.
caryn (10:43:38 PM): 3) Had a mullet. Ok, maybe that's not so bad.
amy (10:43:45 PM): at least he didn't touch us, which is what the drunk fall over guys do
caryn (10:43:55 PM): 4) Talked on the phone really loud during songs.
amy (10:43:57 PM): they use their instability as an excuse to feel you up
amy (10:44:12 PM): he also repeatedly asked if he was bothering us
caryn (10:44:36 PM): 5) Kept trying to engage us in conversation but kept saying the same thing..."their record is the most amazing record ever."
caryn (10:44:54 PM): I knew I shouldn't have whipped out that reporter's notebook and my gay pen.
amy (10:45:12 PM): well i didn't tell you what he said to me afterwards
amy (10:45:24 PM): which was "that was the best show i've seen since the white stripes at hammerstein"
amy (10:45:36 PM): and i said "well, it's a shame you couldn't hear all of it because you were on your cell phone"
amy (10:45:44 PM): and he said "i was just trying to share the experience!"
caryn (10:46:32 PM): Also, notice how he was trying to impress us by letting us know that he was a "stage hand." Oooh, does that help get us back stage? You're so my cherry pie, dude.
amy (10:46:45 PM): haha
amy (10:47:02 PM): i still think the guys that come and sit next to me while i'm sitting in the corner reading a book are worse than him
caryn (10:47:40 PM): Okay, enough about him. What was your favorite T&S stage comment?
amy (10:47:42 PM): like how can i send a bigger signal that i don't want to talk to you? sitting here READING A BOOK isn't getting the message across
amy (10:48:14 PM): hmm
amy (10:48:24 PM): the grandfather in the strip bar
caryn (10:49:20 PM): Right. She tells this long story about her grandfather and then ends it with, "Wow, I'm telling stories about my grandparents. This is like a Christian rock show." (Pause) "And so then we all went a got really fucked up."
amy (10:50:15 PM): oh yeah, the christian comment really made it
amy (10:50:29 PM): i wonder if those old people in the balcony were their family
caryn (10:50:45 PM): I thought that. But they seemed lame. Like label people.
amy (10:50:57 PM): one dude was talking on a walkie-talkie
caryn (10:51:25 PM): Rock-n-roll! So, what did you think about the audience, besides mullet man?
caryn (10:52:13 PM): It really was sold out. Which was nice.
amy (10:52:33 PM): i loved the couple where the girl was singing along to all the words and the guy was half massaging her back half beating out the rhythms of the songs
amy (10:52:57 PM): and of course the couple next to us where the one girl held up her ipod recorder the whole time and the other girl leaned on her shoulder
caryn (10:53:16 PM): Ooh, I missed them. There were a lot of girl couples who were more than little past foreplay on the floor.
amy (10:55:00 PM): yeah, not so many guys there.
caryn (10:55:01 PM): I thought that song "Where does the good go" sounded particularly awesome. Also, might I add that when Tegan plays the keyboards with her electric guitar strapped on and ready, it's particularly sweet. As in sweeet!
amy (10:55:57 PM): yeah, i thought the keyboards sounded great in general last night
amy (10:56:03 PM): the backing band was really, really tight
amy (10:56:09 PM): also, i learned to differentiate their voices
caryn (10:56:28 PM): Don't you feel personally offended when a band doesn't play your favorite song? Like something's wrong with you. Or them, for not liking the song as much as you. They didn't play city girl, which bummed me out.
caryn (10:56:42 PM): Really, how do you tell their voices apart?
amy (10:57:52 PM): tegan has the piercing, avril/alanis canadian tinge
amy (10:57:54 PM): sara does not
amy (10:58:03 PM): oh fuck
amy (10:58:06 PM): maybe it's the other way around?
caryn (10:58:07 PM): Do you think we could start a campaign to try to get Tegan and Sara on the OC to play the Bait Shop?
amy (10:58:21 PM): oh man, that would so rule
amy (11:02:46 PM): i liked how they wore matching outfits
caryn (11:02:50 PM): I kinda wanted to ask that girl who was recording it to her ipod if she'd send it to me. what's the manners for that kind of thing?
amy (11:03:08 PM): i have no idea
amy (11:03:12 PM): i guess you just ask
amy (11:03:06 PM): i wonder if their parents made them wear matching outfits when they were growing up
caryn (11:03:39 PM): They weren't really matching outfits. They both had black shirts on, but Tegan had stuff written on hers.
amy (11:04:01 PM): yeah, but they were cut the same way
caryn (11:04:14 PM): Man, I so wanted one of those t-shirts with pictures of them as plump, hairriffic three year olds.
amy (11:04:46 PM): haha yeah those were awesome
amy (11:05:00 PM): did you notice that the singer of the opening band had a tegan and sara haircut?
amy (11:08:31 PM): oh, the bass player-- did his shirt have a bunch of tvs on it?
caryn (11:08:46 PM): Hmm, didn't notice.
amy (11:09:09 PM): i really liked the design, but i couldn't tell what it was exactly
caryn (11:09:32 PM): Here are covers I'd like T&S to do...1) "Silly Love Songs"
caryn (11:09:49 PM): 2) ""Summer Babe"
caryn (11:10:03 PM): 3) "Stacey's Mom"
amy (11:10:14 PM): oh my god, stacey's mom!! that would be so incredible
caryn (11:10:50 PM): So, should we actually put this chat on MITM? Think people care?
amy (11:12:00 PM): we could put an abbreviated version
amy (11:12:13 PM): but the "think people care" question... i don't know, do they care about anything we put on there?

Amy's reading/Astor Place B&N/Monday, Jan 10 2005

2005-01-10T22:09:00.000-08:00

It's official: Amy kicked ass.

Who was the voice of reason when the guy who happened to be the (cough, cough) EDITOR of the damn book made gross (in multiple senses of the word) generalizations about music he clearly hasn't even listened to?

AMY

Who didn't turn it into a Joe Strummer blow job fest and pointed out some criticism she got from women in the field?

AMY

Who was the best looking reader of the evening?

AMY

(I have to admit that the whole time I couldn't get that Sonic Youth song "Kool Thing" out of my head...I wanted Amy to take the Kim Gordon part and turn to Chuck D. and say, "Are you going to liberate us girls from the male, white, corporate oppression?" Word up!)

Some photographic evidence courtesy of Jason Gross and one self-portrait:

Amy live...with Chuck D.

2005-01-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

Amy's too shy to post something about this on here, so I will.

The young Ms. Phillips contributed a chapter to a book called Let Fury Have The Hour: The Punk Rock Politics of Joe Strummer, which was published by Nation Books last month (for more info, go to www.letfuryhavethehour.com).

On Monday, January 10th at 7:30 pm, she's going to participate in a reading at the Barnes and Noble at Astor Place, along with Antonino D'Ambrosio (the editor of the book) and Chuck
D. Yes, THAT Chuck D.

Be there.

Wreckless Eric / Knitting Factory / Jan. 4, 2005

2005-01-07T23:59:00.000-08:00

By Jason Gross

When it comes to unexpected comebacks, you'd be hard-pressed to beat the Pixies now in terms of box office returns, but a scrawny, mewling little Englishman who barely made an impression in the States back in the punk days at least gets lots of points for having tons of heart. Part of the Stiff Records roster with Nick Lowe, Elvis Costello and Ian Dury, Eric Goulden was probably the label's least-known act, missing out on fame, money or even infamy. The Wreckless One did craft strange, offbeat love songs that were only matched by the Buzzcocks at the time--except that Goulden was way funnier. After a few UK hits, his star burned out fairly quickly, doing the odd album when inspiration struck him or he found a sympathetic label, finally 'retiring' and running off to France for a while and fighting off a drinking problem emblematic of most rock stars.

Goulden couldn't keep away from his music though, recently putting out his first record in six years, Bungalow Hi. Brought out to the tri-state area to participate in Yo La Tengo's annual Hannukah shows, Wreckless E took the time to arrange a few solo dates after that. For his Knitting Factory show, he was truly solo, strumming an ancient, barely tuned guitar. "How many of you remember the first record you bought?" he asked up. "I bet you're embarrassed by it!" he taunted us. He was and he sang about it: one of Joe Meek's studio projects, The Tornados. It's obvious why he had to come back to music at some point as he detailed in another song his break-up with a girlfriend which meant that they had to split up their 33's and 45's (remember when those were around?). Heartbreak is one thing but losing your records? THAT really hurts...

Being a true showman, he did regale us with some oldies from his Stiff days, like "Reconnez Cherie," "Semaphore Signals" and his first record (which he said that he recorded in a shed), "The Whole Wide World." Perhaps not accustomed to a rapturous reception, he reluctantly returned for a one-song encore, explaining that "I never realized I even had a catalog. I thought it was just a bunch of songs." Cute, touching and bizarre, it all comes naturally from a guy who titled his biography "A Dysfunctional Success."

Man in Gray/Southpaw/Jan. 5, 2005

2005-01-07T07:37:00.000-08:00

We're starting out the new year with something a little different. Instead of a show review from the audience's perspective, today we present a show review from the band's perspective.

The band in question is Man in Gray. The band member is Christina DaCosta. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must tell you that I am personally friends with the lovely DaCosta and am a much better person for it. She is an amazing performer who swallows, stamps and spits out the stage without hardly breaking a sweat.

Man in Gray next performs at TISWAS on January 22. Christina is also a member of The Marks, a band that was reviewed here in October.

Our Show

by Christina DaCosta

On Wednesday I walked the two blocks to Southpaw and went to a rock show.

It was freezing rain and I was tired after a long and dull day at the office, but I had to go because I am the singer of Man in Gray and we had a gig.

You may have heard our name somewhere, as we do get some good press and play around NYC a lot, but it is hard to juggle since we are all (mostly) working stiffs trying to lead double lives of rock-n-roller and cubicle dweller.

This leads to many problems with getting gear to the gig, soundcheck (or lack thereof) and scheduling, but we keep playing because we love each other and our music and have a lot of fun.

The band consists of Jeremy (guitar & vox), Bryan (guitar and vox), Jeremiah (drums) and Jared (bass). We all get to hear what the band was like from the audience. What about the band? They have feelings too.

Southpaw is a great venue to play and if you're in a band, I suggest playing there just to get into the nice backstage (basement) area. You can smoke and drink, play Ms. Pacman and explore the drawers of a dusty dresser that contains two humongous aerosol cans of Aquanet hairspray. It's also fun to hang out with the other bands in a relaxed setting where you all know that you are in the "exclusive" backstage area. Sometimes, it's nice to feel that way, even though the last time we played there, the lounge area had garbage pail full of beers and water bottles. Luxurious!

Upstairs, where we actually do go to talk to friends and have them buy us drinks, is better than most rock clubs. Southpaw is clean, but not sterile; small enough to get intimate, but big enough to dance around like a dervish. We have played there once before and it has been my
favorite place to play. Compared to other clubs, Southpaw has a feeling of professionalism that doesn't exist everywhere and the sound guy knows what he's doing.

Unfortunately, we weren't able to soundcheck (see above) because we only got to the club around 7:30...when doors were supposed to open. Therefore, the sound was not as good as it was the first time we played there. Standing at the front of the stage, all I could hear was the fuzziness of the guitars behind me and could barely hear my voice in the monitors. I was getting pretty nervous about how bad it was sounding until I walked out past the monitors and heard that it must sound better to the audience – at least that's what I'm telling myself.

We can't control what the sound guy is doing, but you, yes you, standing in the audience with your arms crossed, can control the lack of dancing. Why don't people dance any more? Really? Is it the booze? Do they need more booze? We played an amazing show at a loft
for an RNC Not Welcome Benefit and those kids were dancing like crazy. I love it when the audience dances to our music. Nothing makes me happier.

Instead, Wednesday night we had people standing at least 4 feet from the top of the stage, more at the bar and more in the seating area. We're a loud band, but we don't hurt people! Audiences need to learn that if they like the band, they should move closer. They should also dance or move vigorously. I dance around very hard on stage and would like to see some other people getting sweaty. Is it too much too ask? I believe this is a New York problem, but correct me if I'm wrong. For all of you people who go to shows, please shake it if you're into the band, just a little. It is the Paradox of Rock Show Dancing: If no one dances, no one will dance. Everyone stands with their arms across their chests and bops their head to the beat, everyone. If a few people stopped doing that and started dancing, more people would follow.

Ask your friends if they are too embarrassed to dance at a rock show, ask yourself! It also could be the problem of a stage. I find that when we play shows that are on the floor and I'm face-to-face with people that they tend to get a little crazier. Perhaps we need to get rid of the stage format to get people to move?

Even though there was no frenzied dancing to our last song, ("Brakelights," our dance number), people seemed to like us. We got on stage a half-hour later than we scheduled and more people stayed than I expected. Many people were friends and friends-of-friends who had never seen us before and I received many congratulations on rocking out hard. Even though some complained about the weird bass buzzing that made them tingle and the lack of vocals in the monitor, every one who was there seemed to have enjoyed themselves and the vibe was very welcoming.

I really appreciated the people who came up to me to talk because I know that the freezing rain and early a.m. job would have kept me home. It wasn't the best show that we've played, but it certainly wasn't the worst and we have another one coming up soon on a Saturday.

After thanking people for showing up, I quietly went downstairs to get my coat and said goodbye to the few friends hanging out backstage. I left unobserved and walked back home in the rain, content in knowing that people had fun at the show, but also knowing that I had to get up and go to work in a few hours.

Caryn's Top Five Live Shows of 2004

2004-12-29T21:44:00.000-08:00

Please forgive me as I’m not as anal as my sister-in-arms Amy Phillips, who just so happens to keep a written tab of every single show she’s gone to since she’s worn braces. As a consequence, the dates may be a bit off on my rundown. But everything’s in the general vicinity of being accurate.

(In vague backward chronological order rather than order of importance.)

1) Patti Smith. Bowery Ballroom. New York City. New Year’s Eve.

Everyone should go to the annual last day in December Patti Smith-a-thon once in their lives. It’s the anti-Dick Clark Rockin’ Eve. You get Patti kicking it all shaman-like. Patti making out with her outrageously foxy and notably younger beau/guitar player. Patti inviting a cast of thousands on stage. This particular night she had Steve Earle with her and there were many stabs at explaining our collective political predicament. Patti Smith’s hunted howl somehow made it seem all that much better. Yeah, people have the power all right. Alas, it wasn’t the portent I’d hoped it would be.

2) Dizzee Rascal. Volume. Brooklyn, NY. February 7.

This was Mr. Rascal’s American live debut and the new (yet sadly short-lived) club Volume did it right for the Vaseline-tongued Brit. Instead of a stage, they had this huge pimped out flatbed truck which kinda made it theatre-in-the-round. When Dizzee went a cappella, I was sure that he was consorting with an alien. But was I that sister from another planet? Dizzee, can you hear me?

3) Kiki and Herb with The Last Town Chorus. Bowery Ballroom. New York City. February 14.

First of all, I saw Boy George that night. Be mine, be mine! All the Valentine a girl could need, really. Then, Megan of the LTC was funny as shit. She asked all sympathetically, “Who here doesn’t have a Valentine?” All these people raised their hands or hooted. “Good,” she said and waited with perfect dramatic pause. “Go fuck each other.” Then she started tapping out that morose code of hers on the lap guitar. Next, it was a visit to that pleasantly musky cultural waste processing plant lorded over by definitive operators Kiki and Herb. Yeeeessss…was the start of my last jam and here it is again, another def jam. For sure.

4) The Thermals. Three times in 2004.

Yep, I saw the Thermals three different times this year. Once, at Northsix. Another time opening up for Sleater-Kinney at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Lastly, at the Mercury Lounge. Thing is, most Thermals shows seem to be similar. There’s Hutch as MC Declarative, the bouncing bass of Kathy and the firm hand of Jordan on drums. Simple. Elegant. Fuckin’ A. It all goes by pretty quickly and by the end you feel like a snow globe that’s been run through the centrifuge. That shit’s good is all.

5) Rock-n-Roll Camp for Girls Showcase. Aladdin Theater. Portland, Oregon. July 29.

You know that old saw about how only 10 people went to the Sex Pistols show in Manchester (or insert some legend about The Velvet Underground here) but all of them started bands? I definitely got that revolutionary feeling at this show. Not so much that these girls would themselves go out and take over the world (but some of them were so good that they just might) but, rather, the mechanism behind rock camp is so right on that it is sure to change the course of music history.

Amy's Top Five Live Shows Of 2004

2004-12-28T21:51:00.000-08:00

OK, techincally, it's six...

1. Vote For Change Tour: Bright Eyes, R.E.M., John Fogerty, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band / Wachovia Center, Philadelphia, PA / Oct. 1, 2004

Sigh… We were all so young and naïve back then, weren’t we? (Read full review in October archives.)

2. R. Kelly, Jay-Z (with Foxy Brown, Ja Rule, Mary J. Blige, Usher, T.I., Freeway, others) / Madison Square Garden / Oct. 29, 2004

For obvious reasons. (Read full review in October archives.)

3. Prince / Madison Square Garden / July 14, 2004

Morris Day and the Time were the surprise opening act. Sheila E. got a five-minute standing ovation after “The Glamorous Life.” It was raining that day. During the show-closing “Purple Rain,” the Garden was a sea of swaying umbrellas. No bad luck here.

4. Big & Rich / CBGB / June 23, 2004

The rapping cowboy was there. The little person was there. A CMT camera crew was there. Many ecstatic rock critics were there. The only thing missing? Gretchen Wilson.

5. Tie: Scout Niblett / Buffalo Billiards, Austin, TX / March 19, 2004 and Joanna Newsom, Antony, Devendra Banhart, Vetiver / Bowery Ballroom / June 21, 2004

This is what I wrote about Scout Niblett in my South by Southwest wrap-up for Kitty Magik:

“She sounds exactly like something I’ve heard before, and that something is Cat Power. But the British singer/songwriter/guitarist/drummer was a million times better in concert than Chan Marshall. For one thing, she finished every song. And she wasn’t afraid to scream at the top of her lungs or beat the shit out of her drums. The greatest thing about Scout (real name, Emma) was how much joy she appeared to be getting out of making music. Her playing was extremely rudimentary and awkward, and she resembled a wide-eyed child who has just discovered the wonders of rock and roll. It was so refreshing, after watching so many artists go through the motions, or just look like they aren’t having a good time up there. Why even bother, right? Scout’s performance reminded me that music is magic, an idea I have been forgetting about more and more often these days.”

Now, will somebody PLEASE put Scout Niblett and Joanna Newsom in a recording studio together? Just think of the magic these pale, frail freak-folk pixies could make together. Maybe it would come close to the thrill of experiencing Joanna, Devendra, Antony and Vetiver doing Joanna’s “Three Little Babes” together.

(I should probably take this opportunity to mention Devendra’s performance at WBAR’s annual WBAR-B-QUE in April. He only played for about 20 minutes, but during that brief time, I finally “got” what all the fuss was about. The mid-afternoon sun was bathing the Barnard cafeteria, Devendra was wearing his trademark hoodie, and a couple of children were crawling around the stage. I felt like I was on a commune.)

Honorable Mentions: Mary Lou Lord on a street corner during South by Southwest, Cex, Hasil Adkins, Friends Forever, Bright Eyes at the National Lawyers’ Guild benefit, The Blow, Dead Milkmen reunion, OVO

Joanna Newsom, (Smog), Weird War / Bowery Ballroom / Dec. 18, 2004

2004-12-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

I pretty much hate the Christmas season, for the most part, what with all the terrible music and the electricity-wasting lights and the senseless shopping frenzy. But little gems like the “It’s A Wonderful Next Life” Drag City Christmas Party sometimes make it worthwhile. The Bowery Ballroom was decked with wreaths and lights, and Drag City had made up these leaflets explaining how Christmas is really a pagan holiday and rock ‘n’ roll can only be played by African-Americans… or something. It’s very confusing, and involves cartoon drawings of Joanna Newsom, Bill Callahan, and the members of Weird War. Nevertheless, it was quite charming.

The show was a round robin, meaning that the acts rotated after three songs. There were three rounds plus an encore, so everybody did ten songs total. That was just the right amount for (Smog) and Weird War, but I don’t think I would have been satisfied with even twice as much from Joanna. Yup, I’m one of those people—I worship her little elf ears and kiss the ground her fringed suede boots walk on. This was my second time seeing her (the first being that amazing tour with Devendra Banhart and Vetiver earlier this year), and I still can’t believe THAT voice comes out of THAT body. And those fingers! I feel like I’ve got ten big toes attached to my hands when I look at her. Joanna modeled the latest in forest nymph chic, changing outfits and hairstyles with every round. She played a good amount of songs that aren’t on The Milk-Eyed Mender, but, alas, no “Three Little Babies.” (My skin is still recovering from the goosebumps that one gave me at the last show.) The stage was completely dark except for an amber spotlight that shone on her and the harp.

At one point, Joanna paused to thank Drag City for being so good to her this year. No, honey, you’ve got it all wrong. They need you more than you need them. Didn’t you notice how half the crowd went down to the basement bar when you weren’t on stage?

I was excited for Weird War, since I’ve never seen Ian Svenonius live, and he’s a legend and everything, and supposed to be an electrifying performer, right? Well, he’s still got mad charisma, but the glory days have passed him by. He’s sort of a parody of himself now, doing that whole “political” white soul brother shtick to death. I predict: one day, Ian Svenonius and Jon Spencer will be touring casinos and county fairs together.

Bill Callahan did his solo acoustic (Smog) thing, bathed in that same amber glow. His voice is so lulling and soporific to begin with… and the sound at the Bowery is always crystal-clear… and I’d just been through a week of holiday parties…. and….zzz.

Team Spider / CBGB's 313 Gallery / Dec. 17, 2004

2004-12-18T17:01:00.000-08:00

Is Team Spider just another gimmick band, or a radical repudiation of hegemonic ideas about age? (Looking at their website, they appear to be a combination of both, not to mention an activist collective and a television show.) What we have here is an average ska/punk group—scruffy, long-haired guitarist, bassist with lip piercing and knit cap—fronted by an eighty-year-old man. He shouts slogans like “Bush Bush Bush! Bomb Bomb Bomb! The Constitution!” and tries to get the audience to shout along. At one point, in between songs, the guitarist jokes, “exploit the old.” It didn’t look like exploitation. The elderly man was having a great time. Why shut octogenarians up in rest homes when they would rather be rocking out?

(Team Spider was performing at the release party for a book called Let Fury Have The Hour: The Punk Rock Politics of Joe Strummer, recently published by Nation Books. Hey, look who wrote a chapter—me!)

Pixies, Broken Social Scene / Hammerstein Ballroom / Dec. 14, 2004

2004-12-15T23:16:00.000-08:00

I could lie and say that this was the best concert of my life. I could say that it was totally worth the ten year wait, and the fifty dollar ticket. That they blew the roof off and set my hair on fire. I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first person to say it.

Honestly? It wasn’t that great.

They played everything I wanted them to play, and more—even “La La Love You” as the final encore, dedicated to David Lovering’s mom, who was in the audience. (Frank Black thanked her for letting them practice in her basement, and then said something like “Who knows? We might be back there soon.”) Lots of stuff from Trompe Le Monde: “Planet of Sound,” “U Mass,” “Subbacultcha.” Doolittle and Surfer Rosa almost in their entirety. Joey Santiago did some cool tricks during his “Vamos” solo where he hit the guitar with a drumstick, and then unplugged the cable and hit it against his head to make fuzzy feedback noises. Everybody in the band seemed content. Kim Deal even called Frank Black “Charles” at the end.

But … I don’t know. It wasn’t exciting. Yes, Frank/Francis/Charles screamed like he was trying to push the last few remaining hairs out of his scalp, and David Lovering’s flamboyant arm movements reminded me of a magician’s.* But they just kind of stood there and played. Kim lurked in the back for most of the set, facing the drum kit. They barreled through song after song like it was just a job (which, I suppose, it is.) I didn’t feel any magic. The audience was way more excited than the four Pixies—I almost wish they had brought the woman going batshit-crazy in the row in front of me up on stage to dance.

I literally slept through Broken Social Scene’s set. Like, drool was dripping out of my mouth and onto my coat. Not because their set was particularly bad, but because I hadn’t slept the night before. In between dreams, I did notice that they brought out the girl from Metric, who spent most of the time doubled over in that classic hardcore singer I-am-feeling-this-so-much-my-body-is-going-to-split-in-half pose.

Also, I didn’t notice any of the sound problems that Douglas mentioned in yesterday’s post, but that may have been because I was sitting in the first mezzanine, not standing on the floor.

* Thanks to Monk, I now know that David Lovering IS a real-life, honest-to-goodness magician. Or rather, a "scientific phenomenologist," as his website says.

Pixies, Mission of Burma / Hammerstein Ballroom / Dec. 13, 2004

2004-12-14T09:54:00.000-08:00

by Douglas Wolk

"You like that band, right?" said my friend's date at the Mission of Burma/Pixies show at Hammerstein Ballroom last night after Burma went off stage. "What do you like about them?" Well, I said, they've got amazing songs, which you couldn't hear tonight. And they have an unbelievably great guitar player, which you couldn't hear tonight. Also, they have an extra, offstage member who does really interesting subtle things to their sound with tape manipulation, which you couldn't hear tonight.

The problem was that the Hammerstein's sound was way, way, WAY too fucking loud, and mixed so badly that all you could hear was vocals and the bassiest drums in the kit. Clint Conley clearly couldn't even hear himself--he sang the entire first verse of "Academy Fight Song" in the wrong key. I love that song, but I love the one that starts "walk into my room/ask me tricky questions," not the one that starts boom-a-BOOM-a-boom-a-BOOM-a-boom-a-BOOM-a. If there was any dust on my clothes before the show, there's not any more.

This was one of the loudest shows I've ever seen--right up there with My Bloody Valentine and the My Dad Is Dead show in '92 or so where I think I permanently lost a little of my high-end hearing--and this time I had my earplugs in the entire time. Look, people: Roger Miller from Burma has to wear pharmaceutical-grade earplugs and rifle-range earmuffs and be separated from Peter Prescott by a Plexiglass barrier and stand next to his amp instead of in front of it, because dumb-ass sound design like this has wrecked his ears. The evidence is right in front of you.

And if I'm paying fifty dollars for a rock show, I had damn well better be getting good sound. That means paying somebody to go to a whole bunch of different parts of the audience area during soundcheck--including where I was standing, about 35 feet from the stage--and make sure that you can hear something other than drums, even if that means turning certain things DOWN a little. The Pixies stopped their set after two songs because the monitor mix was so bad they couldn't hear themselves either; when they came back, they were clearly having a good time--Kim Deal and Black Francis even got into a fake fight about doing an encore, and after he agreed to do one more song ("Debaser"!!), she launched right into "Gigantic" and he had to go along. A lot of their songs start with very specific drum parts--but the ones that don't took a minute or two to identify, because they were just huge shock waves coming out of the sound system.

I had a ticket to see the Pixies again on Thursday, and I had to cancel--there's no way I'm doing that to my ears twice in a week. Don't even think about going without your earplugs.

Move Against AIDS 2004: Return of the Dance-A-Thon / Javits Center / Dec. 11, 2004

2004-12-13T01:27:00.000-08:00

“Dance” and “marathon” are words not usually associated with someone like myself (i.e. an out of shape, pasty-white geek with no rhythm and even less stamina). Nevertheless, due to some serious peer pressure from Caryn and Daphne, I found myself at the Javits Center last night attempting an approximation of what I believe the young folk these days call “shaking that thang.” All in the name of raising money for AIDS research.

Beverly Bond started the evening off by spinning “We Will Rock You,” a song that even I know is better suited to baseball stadiums than dance floors. But then she switched to “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” and all was forgiven. Her set consisted of mostly current hip hop hits, with the occasional Prince or Michael Jackson song. I tried to get low with Lil Jon, get my eagle on with Nelly and lean back with Terror Squad, but from the looks people were giving me, I don’t think I was doing any of them quite right.

Does anybody remember what 3LW’s hit was? Me either, and that’s after watching them perform AND reading their All Music Guide entry. They did a little dance to “Goodies”, lip-synched a couple of tunes, and performed something called “the down south booty bounce.” One girl wore a one-piece jumpsuit that zipped up the front. It looked like baby pajamas. Another wore a tank top with a pocket over each breast. Yikes. But even with those outfits, watching them bounce around made me feel fat and lazy.

Then one of the Queer Eye guys (Jay, maybe? I’ve never watched the show) introduced Danny Tenaglia. Not really my thing. We vacated the dance floor after listening to Madonna say “ladies with an attitude” over and over a thousand times, and took a break. When we returned, Tony Touch was spinning more hip hop hits, which meant “Lean Back” and “Drop It Like It’s Hot” again, as well as New Edition’s “Poison” and the same Prince song (“Kiss”) we’d heard earlier.

But Tony had a little surprise for us. No sooner had I finally worked myself into some sort of groove, then he suddenly dropped “Seven Nation Army.” Everybody kind of stopped what they were doing and looked around awkwardly. “This is the least sexy thing I’ve ever danced to,” Daphne said. Then “Smells Like Teen Spirit” came on. I couldn’t hear what she said next, but I think it was “Oh no wait, I take that back.” The crowd seemed pretty pumped for “Teen Spirit,” though. Everybody jumped up and down in unison.

When Wilson Cruz came on stage, I got really excited, so I yelled “Ricky! Ricky! Ricky!” He introduced Kevin Aviance, who, from far away, I at first thought was Grace Jones, then RuPaul. He was wearing a feathered headdress and a feathery coat, a corset and a thong exposing his rock-hard ass. I was overwhelmed with the urge to get down on the floor and do sets of butt crunches right there.

I can’t remember the sequence of events for the rest of the night, but here’s what happened: Ricky took his shirt off. Alan Cumming talked about using “con doms” (yes, he split the word in half like that). Rosie Perez gave a shout out to all the breeders in the house. Some guy breathed fire on a side stage. Martha Wash sang “It’s Raining Men” and some other song. Rosie Perez praised Martha Wash by dissing “all those non-singing bitches” (uh oh, 3LW!) Peter Rauhofer and Junior Vasquez both spun the same Destiny’s Child remix. (Apparently, it was a big deal that Danny Tenaglia and Junior Vasquez were on the same bill, since they hate each other or something.)

Then we went home and I used WebMD to diagnose myself with Plantar Fascitis.

Robert Quine Tribute / CBGB's 313 Gallery / Dec. 4, 2004

2004-12-08T03:01:00.000-08:00

Robert Quine might not be one of the most famous figures to emerge from the original NYC punk scene, but chances are, everybody reading this owns at least one record he played on. The legendary guitarist was a member of the Voidoids, bootlegged the Velvet Underground, and collaborated with Lester Bangs, Lou Reed, Lydia Lunch, Tom Waits, Matthew Sweet, Brian Eno, among countless others. Quine committed suicide in May, and a bunch of his friends and admirers gathered at CBGB’s Gallery to remember him.

I went to the tribute to support Jason, who became friends with Quine after conducting an interview with him in 1997. Jason told the story of when he first met Quine, how he asked Jason what his birthday was, and immediately told Jason what the number one song was on the day he was born. Apparently, this man had an encyclopedic knowledge of music history that we can all aspire to accruing one day. He also was a bit of a curmudgeon until you got to know him, and then he was a loyal friend who loved to make mixtapes to educate people about his favorite artists.

A parade of NYC punk luminaries, including photographer Roberta Bayley, journalist John Piccarella (accompanied by his thirteen-year-old son in a Pavement t-shirt, on guitar!), producer Hal Wilner and Voidoid Ivan Julian talked about their relationships with Quine. Thurston Moore played a John Fahey-like solo acoustic piece, Yo La Tengo played a bluesy, droning song, and Marc Ribot and Bill Frisell, as well as Jody Harris and David Hofstra, played duets. I had to leave in the middle, but James Chance, Richard Hell, Legs McNeil , Gillian McCain, John Holmstrom and many others were supposed to talk.

Is it appropriate to say that you had fun at one of these things? Because I sure did. I learned so much about Robert Quine, I felt like I had bathed in his spiritual essence. I got to see some big-time musicians at their most raw and vulnerable.

When I die, can somebody organize one of these things for me?

OVO / Local a.k.a. RockStarBar a.k.a. that bar at South 5th and Kent that has a different name every time you go to it / Dec. 3, 2004

2004-12-08T02:09:00.000-08:00

This is why I do it. This is why I risk health, sanity, social life and employment to go out multiple nights a week and stand in a dark room full of drunk strangers. This is why I keep coming back, disappointment after disappointment, over-hyped dance-punk band after over-hyped dance-punk band, ringing eardrum after ringing eardrum.

Because I might stumble upon something like OVO.

A man and a woman, both from Italy. They have matching brown burlap dress/robe things on, and matching serpentine dreadlocks. She looks like Ari Up, he looks like Tim Harrington. He is wearing a Mexican wrestler’s mask, she is wearing a homemade version of the same. She holds a guitar and lets it feed back, occasionally strumming it. She wails and speaks in tongues (or maybe Italian). He attacks a flimsy drum kit that falls apart after a few songs. He moves to a chair in the middle of the room, with a bucket in front of him and a pair of cymbals under his feet. He taps on the bucket with his drumsticks while stomping on the cymbals. She breaks out one of these things. He kneels down in front of a bass guitar, which lays on the ground. He drums on the guitar, which is wired to a delay pedal. The room becomes an echo chamber. A kid grabs the bucket and starts dropping it in time with the beat. Two others join in with their chairs. Everybody else is stomping their feet. The girl takes out a violin bow and starts sawing away at her hair.

Sounds like a total mess, right? It wasn’t. Bands like !!! and Out Hud need four times as many people and instruments to work up that kind of groove.

Danielson Famile, Kimya Dawson / Northsix / Dec. 3, 2004

2004-12-06T01:01:00.000-08:00

Kimya Dawson is quite possibly the only person in the whole world who can get on stage in a big furry skunk costume, accompanied by a percussionist dude in a dress and bunny ears, as well as a doll also in a furry animal costume, and make me want to cry. It’s not just that her songs are sad. It’s that there’s so much hope and love and goodness in her lyrics despite all the sadness. That just kills me, because I wish I felt that way. I wish I believed that a few chords on a beat-up acoustic guitar could change the world. That hugs and kisses will conquer shock and awe. But I just can’t.

Kimya’s performance hit me particularly hard because I’d forgotten how much I like her. I hadn’t listened to any of her records since I wrote this, which was nearly two years ago. But that fragile little voice is like a cup of warm hot chocolate.

Daniel Smith’s voice, on the other hand, is like a bucket of ice water in the face. Near the end of his set with the Danielson Famile, he asked the audience to join him in a sing-along, and everybody just laughed, because no mere mortal can sing that fucking high.

Bon Scott, Justin Hawkins—you guys are Barry White compared to this dude. Even Mariah Carey kneels before him.

Now, if you were blessed with a wail that could make rabid pitbulls cower in fear, what would you do with it? Why, you’d get your siblings and some friends together, dress everybody up in matching white medical scrubs with their names sewn on them, and you’d be a Christian folk-pop band. As All Music says, “They sound like Captain Beefheart's Magic Band joined by the Partridge Family at some roadside revival along the Jersey Turnpike,” and, well, I can’t really come up with anything to top that.

The Danielson experience can’t quite be conveyed with mere words. There are synchronized hand gestures involved, as well as two drummers, a violinist and a banjo player (The latter being none other than Sufjan Stevens, who lurked in the background and was referred to by Daniel as “Steve.” Due to shoddy mixing, I couldn’t hear him sing or play at all. But I could drown in his dreamy blue eyes.)

All that doesn’t even cover half of the craziness going on that night. Before the Famile’s set, Daniel came out to talk about the handcrafted art objects he makes, “Great Comfort Stuff.” On sale at the merch table: Greeting cards saying you’re sorry. Gift wrap. Soap. Heart-shaped blinders. A wooden heart containing miniature body parts. That last one will set you back $400. But hey, this is ART. This guy was in the Whitney Biennial!

Halfway through the Danielson set, the rest of the band left the stage, only to be replaced by a giant cloth tree. Yes, a tree. Daniel climbed inside of it and played a brief set of songs from his new-ish solo record, Brother Is To Son. I kept waiting for some sort of Spinal Tap moment where the tree would collapse or catch on fire or Daniel wouldn’t be able to get out, but it didn’t happen.

And people think Marilyn Manson is weird?!

For an encore, the Famile lead the crowd in some Christmas carols. Everybody seemed to know the words except for me and my friend Katie. This reminded me of when I was in the school chorus in fifth grade, and I would always hum instead of singing the references to Jesus, because I thought that the Jewish God would get mad at me.

Dälek, Rothko, Nov. 30, 2004

2004-12-01T13:55:00.000-08:00

Dälek make the angriest music in existence today. Angrier than Wolf Eyes, Merzbow, dead prez, Paris and The Great Kat going at each other with chainsaws. They’re angry at hip-hop, they’re angry at metal and they’re angry at noise, so they try to kill all of them at once. No wonder their only fans are Decibel magazine’s core demographic. This is quite possibly the only band in the world that could make a record with Faust and have it end up sounding less hard than their usual stuff. They’re angry that everybody forgets that Jesus was black, but fuck it because Christianity will steal your soul anyway.

When you listen to a Dälek record, you only pick up half of the rage. You can’t tell that part of the wall of noise is coming from DJ Still blowing air into the needle as he scratches a record. Or that MC Dälek might weigh 300 lbs, and he’s wearing an XXXL Ol’ Dirty Bastard (R.I.P.) t-shirt that’s tight on him. You can’t see the sweat pouring down his face. You can’t feel the bass in your chest, feet and nose (well, maybe you can, if you spent much, much more money on your speakers than I did.) You can’t see how confused hipsters who came just for the free Red Stripe are attempting to dance to this music. Because you can’t dance to this music. You can only cower.

Scott Seward wrote a really great review of the last Dälek album in the Voice. Check it out here.

Badfish (A Tribute to Sublime), Zox / Toad's Place, New Haven, CT / Nov. 12, 2004

2004-12-01T13:05:00.000-08:00

By MITM Southern New England Bureau Chief Ted Scharff

A hot Russian girl I work with invited me to come out to Toad's Place with her last Friday. A really great band called Badfish was playing, she told me. They play Sublime songs.

"Oh, uh… I'm not so sure I'm going to make it out tonight. Doesn't really sound like my scene."
"What, are you too cool to come out and dance with us?"
"No, I just uh… it’s raining pretty hard, and I'm kind of into a book over here."

A few minutes after disconnecting the phone, I started to think maybe she was right. I pondered: What had six years in New York City done to me? Here I am, brand-spanking-new in town, don't know a soul. A pretty girl asks me to go to a show with her, and I'm balking because the band plays songs that are too popular. Funny, I don't remember setting out to become a music snob. But could I really bring myself to pay $12 to hear people try to sound like a band that never did anything original in the first place?

Perhaps I could...

Hot Russian Girl's number was ringing out to voicemail, so I just headed over to the club in hopes of meeting up with her and her friends inside. Toad's Place was filled to saturation. I made a quick survey of the club. It has an awkward setup. The high school kids are corralled into the front/center stage area, separated from the rest of the cavernous room by a shoulder-high wood and plexiglass barrier. You can't bring a drink into the stagecrowding area, and the only way out to the perimeter of the room -- where the bar and pool tables are -- is to wrestle your way through the crowd to a single handstamp checkpoint.

ZOX was on stage. I caught the last two songs. Apparently, CT Ska is still alive, and it’s been moldering all these years in the fridge next to the stinky Blues Traveller cheese. They had an electric violinist (like Yahoo Serious!), and they actually closed with a hard-driving rendition of Pachelbel's Canon. Eight years ago, it would have made an angsty high school me cringe to see the Dave Matthews set take up the reigns of a scene once dominated by giants like Mephiskaphales - This attitude had little to do with the music, actually. It was a conditioned aversion born of deep subcultural rifts, reinforced by years of adolescent alienation and distrust. But as I said, that was years ago. I leaned against a pillar in the back, tapping a foot and sipping a beer. Zox jammed hard.

My phone buzzed between sets and displayed the hot Russian Girl's number. I answered it and was greeted by tinny crowd noise, and muffled conversation. It was the sort of call you get from people's ass pocket when they forget to lock their keypad. Again, I searched for her in vain. I made my way around the room and through the checkpoint to get a second drink. I watched a cute girl in dreads going crazy to recorded sounds of Odelay as I waited for the main act to take the stage.

The headliner, BADFISH, sounded remarkably like Sublime would without a synth and sampler. Granted, Sublime's music is not the most technically difficult to play, nor is their style the toughest to imitate. What was impressive was the combination of reverence and energy that Badfish put into their show. Every detail, down to the inflections in the vocals, was meticulously faithful to the album versions that have been floating down the halls of college dorms for the past 10 years, and yet for the entire show, Badfish maintained an almost heroic level of enthusiasm.

Badfish played for over an hour, which means they got through approximately half of Sublime's catalog. They covered some of the one and two minute tracks from the first two albums, including the Brad Nowell / Gwen Stefani anthem of desperate love, "I Saw Red" (featuring a female vocalist in a Sublime T-Shirt who materialized for just that one song and then vanished back into the crowd.) They even played "Hong Kong Fooey," from MCA's 1995 Saturday Morning Cartoons' Greatest Hits compilation (If you've never heard this, buy it right now (if only for the Helmet and Violent Femmes tracks)). Mysteriously, Badfish neglected to play "Date Rape." Maybe they didn't want offend the rapists in the audience.

What else could I do? I got drunk. I danced my ass off like there were no Yalies staring at me. I intermittently sang along. I shouted out the sampled bits of the songs while pumping my fists in unison with the rest of the crowd.

I never found the hot Russian girl. Later, I found out she had decided to go to a goth club instead. But I learned a valuable lesson: No good bands come to New Haven since the Tune Inn went out of business.

Dead Milkmen / Trocadero, Philadelphia, PA / Nov. 22, 2004

2004-11-28T17:02:00.000-08:00

The Dead Milkmen were the first “cool” band I ever liked. They weren’t on the radio or MTV (at least not in 1994, when I first heard them), they sang about stupid shit that a teenager could appreciate, and best of all, they were from Philadelphia. Before I moved out of Philly for college, I thought that the Dead Milkmen were strictly a local phenomenon. Who else would appreciate dinky little pop/punk songs about meeting the love of your life at Zipperhead or a Bensalem girl getting knifed by her prom date or driving down the shore to see a bad Doors cover band? A lot of people, apparently. (This scenario also applies to G. Love, but oh god let us pray that I never end up at a G. Love concert ever again.)

I also thought that I would be the youngest person at this one-off reunion show, which was a benefit for various charities associated with Milkmen bassist Dave Blood, who committed suicide in March. When they broke up in 1995, I was fourteen, and I figured that I was probably the tail end of their fanbase. But then I remembered reading an article in Spin about geek rock that name-checked the Milkmen as founding fathers of the genre. From the looks of the crowd, which was a mixture of old skool Philly scenesters and young folk with mohawks, it seems that they continue to attract punky nerds who like their rock and roll silly and effervescent.

This was my first time seeing the Milkmen live, and though I realize that the circumstances surrounding the reunion were quite tragic, I must say thank you to the band for giving me this opportunity. I waited ten years for this show, and it definitely did not disappoint.

Rodney Anonymous looks like a macho hardcore dude—I never knew! I mean, I KNOW he’s not a macho hardcore dude, but he sure looked like one up there, with his bald head, Front Line Assembly shirt, menacing demeanor and stalking back and forth across the stage. Of course, he was shouting about lizards and coloring books and banana peels, not smashing the state or whatever macho hardcore dudes shout about.

They played for an hour and a half straight, with very little space between songs. The fill-in bassist, some dude from Joe Genaro’s other band the Low Budgets, did a good job of staying out of the way. There was a mosh pit, and a guy who looked like he was at least in his mid-‘30s stage dove during “Bitchin’ Camaro.” Rodney used the introduction to that song to talk about Dave Blood, and gave a heartfelt memorial that was as funny as it was sad. But what are the Dead Milkmen without humor, right?

At the end of the night, members of all the opening bands came out for a cacophonous version of “Big Time Operator.” My friend Sara said, “It’s like the Philly Rock and Roll Hall of Fame up there!” It made me so happy and proud to see that. Philadelphians are rarely supportive of one another, particularly in the rock scene. That’s definitely part of the reason why cool, successful Philly bands are so few and far between. And another reason why the Dead Milkmen were so special.

Once again, if you want to read my Inquirer-fied version of what happened, click here. Or read Sara’s account here.

Marilyn Manson, Slunt / Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA / Nov. 21, 2004

2004-11-28T14:02:00.000-08:00

There are two women and a man standing behind me, talking. They are white (like everyone else in the crowd), they are probably in their early ‘30s, and they work for a drug company. The man is wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt, the women are in dresses. They have thick Philly / South Jersey accents, and they complain that all the beer they are drinking will give them a hangover that will be difficult to deal with tomorrow morning at work. All of them have seen Marilyn Manson perform multiple times. They all agree that the last tour, when he played the Tower Theatre and got a blowjob on stage from a female backup dancer, was the best show ever.

They like Slunt because the girls are hot and they play a Nirvana cover.

While waiting for Manson to take the stage, they talk about who in their office is gay and who isn’t. One woman recounts going on a date with one guy who ended the evening with just a kiss on the cheek. He must be gay. Plus, I can tell from his mannerisms. Yeah, the guy says. I try to stay away from him. Eww—look at those girls right there (points to two large Latino women wearing matching bandanas on their heads, locked in an embrace). I hate it when lesbians aren’t hot. I wouldn’t fuck one of those girls if I got drunk and passed out with a hard-on. Did I ever tell you about my friend Jimmy? He’s in jail right now. But this one time, we were at this party and he fell asleep with his dick hard. He woke up because this really fat girl was riding him. It was so gross. I can’t look at those girls. It makes me uncomfortable.

Then Marilyn Manson comes on and they sing along to every word.

If you want my standard journalistic version of what happened on stage, click here (registration required).

Ariel Pink, Sympathizers / Tritone, Philadelphia, PA / Nov. 19, 2004

2004-11-27T17:52:00.000-08:00

Fuck you, Ariel Pink. Fuck you for making crappy fake “outsider” music. Fuck you for ripping off Gary Wilson and doing it badly. Fuck you for running offstage and out of the club in the middle of your set. Fuck you for coming back and playing ten minutes of lame improv noise. Fuck you for having no respect for your audience. Fuck anybody who puts up with this “tortured genius” bullshit.

Thank you, Sympathizers, for being good sports and playing after that trainwreck. Thank you for making fun of him. Thank you for playing clanging synth-punk a la Metal Urbain and Suicide. Thank you for writing the lyric “I wanna fuck you in your tax shelter.” Thank you for dressing like members of the original no wave scene. Thank you for being a Philadelphia band that makes cool music. May you never experience the city’s self-hating curse of failure.

The Blow, YACHT, Dear Nora / The West End basement / Nov. 18, 2004

2004-11-27T17:16:00.000-08:00

I have many memories of the West End basement, very few of which are fond. This is the place where I got my nose broken at an Anti-Heroes show when I was a freshperson in college. This is also the place where I suffered through too many performances by ex-boyfriends’ lame-ass bands.

But this wonderful show, organized by the wonderful people at wonderful WBAR, Barnard College Radio, helped me erase some of those bad memories and replace them with good ones. I was a DJ and staff member at WBAR for all four years I was at Columbia, and I helped put on many a performance. So it’s always a treat to go to one of their events now and just enjoy it, rather than worrying about if the bands have signed their contracts, or who’s cleaning up, or if people are sneaking in without paying. Also, it makes me happy when WBAR shows attract a crowd, as this one did. It makes up for all those times ten people showed up to see Boyracer or Palomar or whoever.

Due to The O.C. (hey, some things just take priority over others), I missed openers Cynthia Lee and Knife Skills. When I arrived, Katy Davidson (a.k.a. Dear Nora) was doing her thing. Her music was flat and bland as usual, but she seemed like a silly, charming person who is probably fun to hang out with. She gave several shout-outs to Portland, and as I looked around, I realized that this was a pretty PDX-esque crowd. You know, lots of butchy girls and feminine guys all wearing multi-colored, mismatched secondhand clothes and carrying, like, Nalgene bottles and messenger bags. Why didn’t I move there again?

After Dear Nora, things picked up. YACHT (aka mister Jona Bechtolt), one such PDX-looking fellow brandishing a rainbow-striped bandana, danced spastically to deconstructed whiplash electro crunk dancehall booty bass tracks that reminded me of DJ\Rupture or Kid606 or one of those Tigerbeat6 people. When he started rapping, it was a flashback to classic Cex.

YACHT’s solo set was quite short, but he joined The Blow (aka miss Khaela Maricich) as her backup band. The beat to her irresistible “hit” “Hey Boy” (download from Fluxblog here) bounced off the walls as she set up, and by the time she actually started singing, a dance party was already in full effect. It continued for the remainder of her performance, which consisted of Khaela sweetly bleating and dancing like nobody was watching, while Jona spazzed out behind her. There were Christmas lights, a fake knife and a Star Wars t-shirt involved. She said that they were trying to write songs in different genres, so we got to hear a goth song, an electroclash song, and an r&b song they’re waiting to find the right diva for.

People always hate on the K records crew for being so happy and childish and “punk means cuddle”. Sure, it can get annoying after awhile, but I’ll take “punk means cuddle” over “punk means smashing some poor little girl’s nose in” any day.

U2/Saturday Night Live/ Nov. 20, 2004

2004-11-24T13:11:00.000-08:00

I like stage shows. Dancing. Costumes. Wardrobe malfunctions. Moving, mechanical parts. If Madonna's gotta lip-synch to pull it off, so be it. This is spectacle and a good spectacle is a mighty thing to behold.
I also love performance. I tend to think of this as a more stripped down thing. The moving mechanical parts are humans. Humans attached to instruments. A rock band in its most basic form would fit here. Rappers in a cipher, too.
Can a spectacle feature performance? Yes. Can a performance veer into spectacle? Yes. But the main thing is, they both can stand on their own.
I don't want to get into one of these debates. They both have their merits. Hallelujah!
That said, one of the most inspiring bits of performance I've witnessed recently is U2 on SNL this past week.
Usually a performer offers up 2 songs at most to the late night tv crowd; on this particular Saturday night, u2 took the stage for a third time during that goodbye period when the cast is all on the stage.
The Edge kicked into the jagged chords of "I Will Follow," the band's king clarion call from its clarion clogged song file. Bono dropped into all the requisite rock star poses (the toe-to-ground, the cross, the it's-cold-outside). The Edge slid up and started singing the chorus into Bono's mic. Bono slung an arm around his shoulder and said something like, "I'd follow you anywhere." Feels cheesy to write it, but it felt sweet and real when it happened.
Then Bono walked off the stage and started heading toward the audience. Clearly this wasn't planned. The camera people seemed confused. This wasn't part of the master plan. The Edge followed Bono out into the audience. A kerfuffle unfolded on live television. A joyous kerfuffle. How rare.
Bono started grabbing the camera and pulled it along in Zoo TV fashion. He straddled some woman in the front row and she looked like she might explode with happiness. He then headed toward the main stage where the cast members were jumping up and down. He pulled Amy Poehler to his chest and she looked like she was crying.
The song ended and the audience crackled and convulsed. Just as the show was about to go off the air, I could hear Bono say, "One more! One more!" The crowd officially went kablooey. Cut to commercial. Only in my imagination could I guess what the rest of that set was like.
I was sweating when it was over.
Now, your turn. See it here.

Arcade Fire, Hidden Cameras / Bowery Ballroom / Nov. 11, 2004

2004-11-12T21:28:00.000-08:00

The Arcade Fire are the greatest band of all time. My heart stops when I hear their music. Seriously, I have to be rushed to the emergency room every time I play their CD, because my aorta collapses in on itself from the sheer beauty of “Wake Up.” But I can’t stop listening to them, even though my doctor and my parents and my friends keep begging me. I’d rather die than live without the Arcade Fire.

Ok, that’s a load of bull crap. But come on, from the way people have been shitting themselves over this group lately, am I really that far off? I have honestly never seen the Bowery more crowded than it was last night, nor have I ever seen that many music writers at a show together. I have also never seen a crowd act less excited to watch a performance by a band they supposedly love. The main guy (wearing a suit with the image of a skeleton silkscreened on his back) kept commenting on how quiet everybody was in between songs, and thanked us for being polite at the end. Sure, this is NYC, and everybody’s too cool for school, but holy crap, does the Arcade Fire not have any real fans or something? Songs like “Wake Up” and “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)” deserve jumping, dancing, shouting, stripping, making out, not toe-tapping and head-nodding. Then again, I spent the entirety of their set shoved in a corner in between a stairway, a trash can and some Hidden Cameras, so I must admit my viewpoint was a bit obscured. Maybe people were going mad crazy in the balcony. I hear David Bowie was there, but I only spotted David Byrne. (I watched for his reaction when Arcade Fire covered “This Must Be The Place.” There was none.)

All kidding aside, I really do like the Arcade Fire. They remind me of Rainer Maria, in that they are totally emo but nobody wants to admit it, and they are anchored by a strong woman. I’m always pleasantly surprised when I find out that the Token Pretty Girl in a band isn’t just a token singer or keyboardist. This woman played everything—drums, accordion, xylophone, banging on stuff—all while wearing red elbow-length gloves and this weird seatbelt-like strap thing around her chest. Pretty much everybody in the band switched instruments a lot, and there was a playful let’s-put-on-a-show vibe to the whole affair. They performed with the energy of a knuckleheaded pop-punk band, which only made their music more heartwrenching.

When this show was first announced a month or so ago, I was excited because I thought the Hidden Cameras were headlining. After their short, disappointing CMJ set (see Oct. 15th entry), I wanted more sweet, sweet gay folk church music! And maybe the Hidden Cameras were originally supposed to headline, before the Arcade Fire blew up, I don’t know. Fortunately, their set lasted for about an hour, and included more from their first album, which is what I wanted to hear. They also brought out their trademark dancers in ski masks, who stripped down to their underwear and gyrated through the end of the set. During “Golden Streams,” they tossed yellow crepe paper from the balcony (huh huh, get it?) Alas, the crowd was not into it at all. They came to that show for one purpose: being able to impress their friends by saying they saw the Arcade Fire. And no silly opening act was going to get in their way.

Doobie Brothers et al/Hammerstein Ballroom/Nov. 10, 2004

2004-11-12T10:57:00.000-08:00

Reviewed by Mac Montandon

Not since the Big Chill soundtrack hit record racks in 1983 has so much baby-boomer rock been seen in one place.

The New York City-based nonprofit Boomer Coalition wheeled out some of pop music's creakiest heavy hitters on Wednesday night at the Hammerstein Ballroom to raise awareness and funds for their fight against cardiovascular disease, or CVD. At times the R&B and blues-leaning lineup---anchored by the Doobie Brothers,Los Lobos, the Taj Mahal Trio, and Patti LaBelle---slung enough overcooked noodle to satisfy an Olive Garden franchisee. But the forgiving and nearly filled house happily stuck with the if-it-feels-good-do-it vibe of the night.

From very early on it was clear the late-arriving crowd came out more for the music than the message. Before the show, lobby lingerers buzzed, as two computers set up for new member registration sat lonely and unused. The multi-culti crowd, thick with older guys stroking graying goatees and younger, GAP-clad latte-lovers, seemed primed for pleasure. LaBelle kicked things off with a short and bizarre set. Before begging off, saying she was "sick as a frog," the 60-year-old soulstress dolloped a taste of her soaring, molasses sweet jazz riffs on an adoring audience. Her frothy act dissolved soon after she invited five men from the crowd to dance with her onstage and sing along to "Voulez Vous Couchez Avec Moi, Ce Soir?" A rail-thin exhibitionist named Earl briefly stole the show with emphatic, comically twitchy dance moves.

Taj Mahal was up next and his heavy, straight ahead blues rescued the night from its initial Gong Show flavor. Los Lobos provided the evening's biggest burst of raw power, cranking out Latino-tinted garage rock. The seven-piece outfit enhanced their crackly, distorted sound with a three-guitar front. Taj Mahal joined them for a rumbling version of the blues standard, "Sweet Home Chicago," that had the crowd shaking in their 501s. Perhaps the shows most apropos moment came during Taj Mahal's set, when a waft of marijuana smoke blanketed the balcony. If nothing else, this proved that the Boomer Coalition was on to something when they ran ads in the New Yorker magazine that read: "If you smoked pot at Monterey in '67, you might have CVD."

That and a ticket to a mid-week dinosaur rock show.

Jimmy Eat World / Webster Hall / Nov. 8, 2004

2004-11-11T13:05:00.000-08:00

Unlike Caryn, I don’t have any particularly strong feelings for Jimmy Eat World. My favorite song by them is probably their Guided By Voices cover, which you can find on that Move On benefit CD. But I thought the singles from their last album were fun, and I went to the concert hoping to be won over.

I wasn’t.

As Caryn says, Jimmy (I refuse to call them JEW, that’s just weird) are “play-by-the-book.” That can be fine, if you’re, say, The Hives. But if you’re just halfheartedly going through the motions, you’re wasting my time. Especially if every song on your new record is leaden post-grunge.

When we were waiting to get into Webster Hall, we heard the bouncers talking about “crying girl.” Apparently, she had started sobbing when she discovered that she couldn’t get into the sold-out show. I wish I had been able to give her my guest list spot, because I understand how much this music can mean to somebody. It just doesn’t mean anything to me.

Jimmy Eat World/Webster Hall/Nov. 8, 2004

2004-11-09T19:05:00.000-08:00

I thought I’d be over it by now, but I’m still smarting from the election. Even though I’ve made public promises to be optimistic (and I do have my moments), I’m still sore and sad and mad and snippy. Thank god for the music.

In moments like these, I like nothing more than a lil’ jangle pop to put a snap to my step. For those born after, say, 1980, jangle pop (or jangulius populis) is the early bud of what later blossomed into radio-friendly alternative rock. Sprung from The Byrd’s jingle jangle morning (Mary Lou Lord later wrote an ode to that phrase), with just a few harmonies and some rattle and hum, jangle pop at its best is wildly optimistic yet defiantly angry. Starkly stubborn yet unapologetically vulnerable. Radically land-grabbing yet torn from the universal songbook. Lots of yets. Think REM’s “Radio Free Europe” with its insistent drumming urging on Stipe’s whine or Crowded House’s love poem “Something So Strong.”

One of today’s torchbearers of the jangle pop aesthetic is Arizona’s finest, Jimmy Eat World. Awful name, yes. But pretty, pretty songs. I needed to get a leg up from these sad times by seeing them live. Amy and I headed off to Webster Hall.

It was packed and Amy and I (being serious shortees) nudged ourselves in downstairs to the side. A pack of girls crammed up right on our asses and started giggling and doing a lot of up talk. “So, like, after class I went to the library? And it, was, like, empty?” I hate when girls do uptalk or speak Valley Girlese. It’s my own personal prejudice. There’s no way that you can sound smart while engaging in these activities. Even Kathleen Hanna. And I don’t buy that reclaiming the whatthefuck bullshit.

So, anyway, these girls are behind us and I think, “Great, they’re going to have inane conversations behind us the whole show.” But from the moment the band started with “Bleed American” through even much older material, these girls sang along, every word. Every word. And not in that self-conscious Dashboard Confessional audience way, but in a full-throttle spirit release way. And I loved them then, I really did.

Jimmy Eat World seem to be a play-by-the-book live band. Jim Adkins, the main singer and guitar player, is the energy force of it all (and his floppy, sweaty bangs just may be the fifth member of the group) as he jumps up and down and hunches his shoulders just so.

In a weird way, I got what I wanted from the show, but it wasn’t handed to me by JEW, necessarily. Yes, the meta moment when the band played “Praise Chorus,” (their homage to music that’s inspired them and includes snippets of other songs) while the audience sang back its own form of appreciation, that was part of it. But it was the little praise chorus behind me that lifted my spirits. Their energy and commitment was irrefutable. And that’s the least I can bring to the party.

The Weakerthans, Piebald, Fembots / Triple Rock Social Club, Minneapolis, MN / Nov. 4, 2004

2004-11-09T01:06:00.000-08:00

Reviewed by MITM Minneapolis Bureau Chief Pat Feghali

Triple Rock Social Club is located at the end of a stretch of bars and Somali restaurants which stand between it and the University of Minnesota’s East Bank campus. On its other side is a highway ramp. Yet, despite the potential strangeness of its location, the building is a perfect addition to the neighborhood, supplying both a venue that is often all-ages, as well as a bar/restaurant in a connecting room.

The Fembots opened the show this past Thursday. Contrary to what I assumed based on their name, they were not a girl punk band. Instead, they were three men and a woman playing mellow, heavily country-inspired rock. And they were quite good.

Piebald was up next. Despite their obvious enthusiasm, their set was a pleasing but ultimately forgettable exercise in pop-punk. (Note to Piebald: opening with your best and most interesting song of the night, “Long Nights,” may get people to pay attention, but it sure as hell won’t keep them excited when your other songs are just not as good.) The highlight of that set, for me, was, hands down, the fact that the kid next to me was actually nine years old, four feet tall, adorable, and wearing almost the same outfit that I was: sneakers, jeans, and a black hooded sweatshirt. That kid was awesome.

Never fear, though, the Weakerthans came and saved the show. They played through most of their latest album, Reconstruction Site, and quite a few tracks from Left and Leaving to boot. The keyboard player and guitarist from the Fembots jointed them on several songs, but they always sounded just like themselves. Their combination of punk, pop (but not pop-punk), country and lyrical reference to everything under the sun (and ice) is purely theirs. There is no band out that that can quite blend loneliness, heartache, anger, literary references and sheer love of the arctic as well as these boys. Maybe it’s because they’re Canadian. I don’t know. What I do know is that they make some fabulous records, and they play shows like they love being there.

That nine-year-old may never know just how lucky he is to be growing up on bands like the Weakerthans. But I suspect he appreciates it.

Dresden Dolls / Bowery Ballroom / Oct. 29, 2004

2004-11-04T01:30:00.000-08:00

Reviewed by Liz Gorinsky

If I'd actually written this review of the Dresden Dolls show the day after it happened, I would have been mightily tempted to precede it with a spoiler warning, because, holy cow, was this show full of surprises.

Due to the fairly interminable parade of opening acts before the Dolls took the stage-- my friends report that I should be sorry to have missed The Ditty Bops, a precious duo that speaks olde-time jazz like they just stepped out of the ‘20s; but I could easily have done without Count Zero (lameoid thrashy pop... the book is way better), the poorly-scripted S&M act, or the overlong intros from our corseted male MC-- I spent a lot of time observing the crowd, which was sparked by the natural eccentricity of the band's fan base and fueled by the show's proximity to Halloween. It had drag queens enacting improv theatre on the waiting crowd; scantily-clad girls and skinny, pretty boys dressed as vintage cigarette-sellers; people in Halloween costumes; and hardened fans sporting specific references to Weimar cabaret fashion or dolled up as... dolls (since I was wearing my own pair of black-and-white-striped thigh-highs, I'd be hard-pressed to pass judgment on any of them). If they were shooting for a carnivale atmosphere, they certainly got one.

None of it, though, was half so much fun as what happened once the Dolls took the stage. As the two-person band slunk on stage covered in a black sheet, the MC explained that Amanda's Halloween dream was to appear before us as the banshee of Celtic legend, setting us up to expect some sort of horror show. But when the lights came up and the sheet was abandoned, Brian and Amanda emerged dressed like Sonny and Cher (!) and proceeded to put all their muster and vibrato into a slightly-updated cover of "I Got You, Babe." As soon as they finished, burlesque music was piped in over the loudspeaker. A cigarette boy and girl wearing very little but body paint came on stage bearing decorated costume boxes and stood by as the Dolls stripped down to nothing but their skivvies, with black electrical tape Xed over their nipples (this is probably the point at which they instantly took the title of Band I Most Want to Have a Threesome With, a category I didn't even know existed until Friday night). Instead of donning their standard garb, though, they put on blonde wigs and matching pink skirts, bras, and berets, and launched into a cover of "Hit Me Baby One More Time," with Brian doing the "Still believe!" refrains in falsetto. Just when I thought they had run out of pop culture references, the PA kicked in with "Like a Prayer," and the two blondes made out for awhile. Then they put on their normal outfits and applied doll makeup, Brian using some lucky bystander's camcorder as a mirror.

This signaled the start of the somewhat more serious business of performing their own songs. They started with a few of the short, catchy songs they've MP3ed on their website, got the audience eating out of their hands, then switched to a run of what I'm tempted to call their "power ballads", if only because of the intense instrumental breaks and Amanda's strident vocals. From the get-go, they demonstrated obvious expertise as performers and theatricality to spare (nifty stage tricks included Amanda's duet with herself on the closing bars of "Half Jack" and Brian's elaborately-choreographed performance as the title character in "Coin-Operated Boy").

There clearly wasn't much risk of anyone getting bored, but that didn't stop the band from working to earn their keep. Like every cultural event I've attended for the past few weeks, the band urged everyone in the audience to get out the vote... except that they did it via a cover of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs." Then, another song of their own, and then... hey, look! Special guests! Big dork that I am, as soon as the first guest walked on stage I thought, "Woah! That's the guy that played accordion for Emilyn Brodsky when she opened up for the MagneticFields!" I found out about a second later that he and his partner-in-crime, dapper Jack Terricloth were actually from The World/Inferno Friendship Society, there to join the Dresden Dolls in a stirring cover of a song from Brecht and Weill's Threepenny Opera. No hiding from their influences on this stage, no sirree.

That was the band's last trick for the evening. Nothing particularly abnormal happened as they left the stage and then encored with a few slow, powerful songs. Then again, I'm not sure "normal" really applies to the Dresden Dolls. There are critics who dismiss image-conscious bands like this as fluff, but if you can pull off both the highly-stylized imagery and the musical prowess to back it up, why not work it? If it's gestalt the Dolls are going for, they've hit it spot-on.

Will the congregation please rise and join me in a moment of silence, followed by the singing of the traditional hymn “Purple Rain”

2004-11-04T01:01:00.000-08:00

By MITM Minneapolis Bureau Chief Pat Feghali

R.I.P. First Avenue, 1970-2004: concert venue, second home, teacher, friend, surrogate parent, lover.

First Ave, I barely knew you. I only had the pleasure of gracing your halls twice, and now you are apparently gone forever. You fostered generations of Twin City youth, you have seen shows that have changed the world, you withstood the pressure of a world full of Clear Channel venues for so long...

You will be missed.

Jay-Z, R. Kelly / Madison Square Garden / Oct. 29, 2004

2004-10-30T18:55:00.000-07:00

Holy cow. By now, you’ve probably heard all about what went down last night. If not, read this. Or tune into Hot 97 for like 10 minutes, and somebody will clue you in.

We were sitting in the way-way-way back nosebleed section, so we couldn’t hear everything that was going on, due to all the reverberations. Thus, I can’t offer any juicy tidbits that you couldn’t get from the major news media. But I can tell you that nobody seemed upset in the slightest when R. Kelly announced that he wasn’t coming back on, myself included. After Jay-Z’s pedal-to-the-medal sets, R. Kelly’s lugubrious slow jams were just buzzkills. Sure, I would have loved to have sung along to “I Believe I Can Fly,” but if I had to choose between that and Mary J. Blige singing the shit out of “Song Cry” PLUS Usher doing “Confessions (Part II) a cappella—well, it’s no contest. Usher was amazing, oozing pure showmanship and liquid body movements. Allegedly, he was sitting in the audience when all the trouble went down, and proceeded to run backstage, download some backing tracks onto his laptop, burn them to CD and hand them to the sound guy, before rushing on stage. Damn. My opinion of that guy just went through the roof. I actually felt bad for Jigga during Usher’s set, since he didn’t have anything to do. He just stood on the side of the stage and went “Uhh. Yeah.” a few times while his show was being hijacked by the most popular singer in America.

When Foxy Brown came out for her part in “Ain’t No N****,” nobody cared, at least as far as I could tell. Hell, even Freeway got a bigger reception. (That dude is CRAZY, by the way. I didn’t realize how huge and confrontational he is. From the way he was running around and shouting, you would have thought that Bonecrusher was inhabiting his body. But at least Freeway kept his shirt on.)

Before everything fell apart, I thought the coolest part of the show would prove to be when Jay-Z showed a montage of clips of Kurt Cobain smashing guitars during one song. (Anybody know which one it was? I can’t remember.) I was confused at first, but then it all made sense: rage is rage, no matter what color you are.

Also, I really should say something about the crowd. It was probably the most diverse group of people I’ve been a part of since…well, it would truthfully be the subway ride into Manhattan that day, but in a concert context, since I saw Prince at the Garden this summer. All ages, from little kids to middle-aged steppers out on dates, all races, all manners of dress. And when Hova yelled, “IS BROOKLYN IN THE HOUSE?” we all screamed together.

Rachael Yamagata / Bowery Ballroom / Oct. 26, 2004

2004-10-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

Take away everything interesting about Fiona Apple except for that smoky voice, and you’ve got Rachael Yamagata. Sure, the girl growls like she’s been a nicotine fiend since birth, but there’s no there there. I admire the fact that she doesn’t like makeup, dresses like she just rolled out of bed and isn’t supermodel-thin, but do we really need another young white girl moaning about bad boys over cookie-cutter adult-alternative arrangements seemingly tailor-made for diehard WXPN listeners? Well, I suppose “we” don’t, but apparently enough yuppies and future yuppies to fill up the Bowery Ballroom do.

The best parts of Tuesday’s sold-out concert had nothing to do with music. In between songs, Rachael rambled on about how smelly her tour bus is and how the boys in her band would go out every night after the show and score groupies, while she would sit around in her pajamas and watch Maid In Manhattan. She also dedicated a song to “all the assholes who fall in love with me and then run off with teenagers—not that I have anything against big-breasted blondes who happen to be sixteen.” But, far and away, the highlight of the evening for me was when, at the beginning of some slow piano lament, this preppy girl standing next to me whispered to her friends, “Ooh, this is the one we’re doing!” and then proceeded to do some sort of interpretive dance routine to the entire song. (Inside joke for Barnard/Columbia people: She must be a member of Orchesis.)

2004-10-28T23:49:00.001-07:00

Al Green at Beacon Theatre, Oct. 23, 2004

2004-10-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

Al Green at Beacon Theatre, Oct. 23, 2004

2004-10-28T23:48:00.000-07:00

Al Green at Beacon Theatre, Oct. 23, 2004