July 26, 2008
NYC
The A-Bones played on-board.
"The millionaire and his wife" aka Ira Kaplan on keyboards as Georgia Hubley looks on.
Baseball! After 15 innings, the Mets finally succumbed to the St. Louis Cardinals :(
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Ride Captain Ride
Rocks Off Cruise
July 26, 2008
NYC
The A-Bones played on-board.
"The millionaire and his wife" aka Ira Kaplan on keyboards as Georgia Hubley looks on.
Baseball! After 15 innings, the Mets finally succumbed to the St. Louis Cardinals :(
July 26, 2008
NYC
The A-Bones played on-board.
"The millionaire and his wife" aka Ira Kaplan on keyboards as Georgia Hubley looks on.
Baseball! After 15 innings, the Mets finally succumbed to the St. Louis Cardinals :(
Monday, July 28, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Hippies!
Akron/Family
July 24, 2008
Castle Clinton
NYC
With Megafaun and a mess of horns.
Castle Clinton, the pre-revolutionary stone fortress at the tip of the Battery that becomes an outdoor concert venue in the summer, was filled with a youthful, almost childlike, exuberance on Wednesday before that evening’s free Akron/Family concert that felt rare for a rock & roll show. I’m not sure if the crowd actually was demographically younger than at other rock shows, or if it was the effect of the early evening sunlight streaming in over the downtown skyline that made everyone look all shiny and dewy, but of all the free summer shows I’ve been to this summer, it sure felt like this was the one that was for the kids. When the band came out, I heard one young man near me say to his friend with what seemed like genuine awe, “Wow, that’s a lot of beards onstage. Do you think you could grow one like that?”
While the ascendancy of the beard among a certain subset of rock musicians is not unique to Akron/Family, the beards in this band are of a very distinct kind from other facial hair clogging stages across the land – this was the hippy beard. But it’s not just the beards (in fact, some of the 10+ musicians on stage were clean-shaven) – you can almost smell the hippiedom emanating off the stage in the back rows. But the brilliant part is that they manage to evoke this without being annoying (amazing, I know.) Because they are the kind of hippies that just love music, and playing it, and in doing so, have decided to let their freak flag fly, which is the cool kind. As such, they possess a cultivated eccentricity, at once taking their way of paying homage to classic Americana rock & roll very seriously while simultaneously evoking an incredibly silly sense of humor at the whole thing. I don’t think I’ve laughed so much at a show, well, ever. Not because there were Weird Al-style lyrics or comedic banter. It was more a joyous laughter, reveling at once in the intensity with which one experiences rock & roll and the absurdity of that intensity.
The Akrons transition from a capella crooning, with wheedling voices that evoke The Band and other classic Americana, to full-on jamming mode by hinging at the waist, turning away from their microphones with their backs to the audience, and bobbing their heads, long greasy locks of hair flailing in their faces. And they actually do rock out, which is cool. It’s clear they owe a debt of gratitude to the Grateful Dead with song lyrics that cite “mountains of the moon,” and at their last show at the Bowery Ballroom they flat-out covered both I Know You Rider and Turn On Your Lovelight.
If the audience has half as much fun as the band seems to be having on stage then they’re doing all right. And the audience seems to still know how to react to a band that’s jamming out - everywhere in view heads bop, arms flail, and fists pump the air. At one point the band coaxed the audience into a scream -off, counting off and then asking everyone to scream their heads off. A microphone was passed into the crowd so that everyone in the audience would be equally enfranchised with amplification as the band on stage. By the last song, Ed is a Portal, all hell seems to have broken lose, everyone's out of their head, the musicians are perched on each other's shoulders, and band and crowd have become one as everyone chants the lyrics, which everyone seems to know by heart, together.
July 24, 2008
Castle Clinton
NYC
With Megafaun and a mess of horns.
Castle Clinton, the pre-revolutionary stone fortress at the tip of the Battery that becomes an outdoor concert venue in the summer, was filled with a youthful, almost childlike, exuberance on Wednesday before that evening’s free Akron/Family concert that felt rare for a rock & roll show. I’m not sure if the crowd actually was demographically younger than at other rock shows, or if it was the effect of the early evening sunlight streaming in over the downtown skyline that made everyone look all shiny and dewy, but of all the free summer shows I’ve been to this summer, it sure felt like this was the one that was for the kids. When the band came out, I heard one young man near me say to his friend with what seemed like genuine awe, “Wow, that’s a lot of beards onstage. Do you think you could grow one like that?”
While the ascendancy of the beard among a certain subset of rock musicians is not unique to Akron/Family, the beards in this band are of a very distinct kind from other facial hair clogging stages across the land – this was the hippy beard. But it’s not just the beards (in fact, some of the 10+ musicians on stage were clean-shaven) – you can almost smell the hippiedom emanating off the stage in the back rows. But the brilliant part is that they manage to evoke this without being annoying (amazing, I know.) Because they are the kind of hippies that just love music, and playing it, and in doing so, have decided to let their freak flag fly, which is the cool kind. As such, they possess a cultivated eccentricity, at once taking their way of paying homage to classic Americana rock & roll very seriously while simultaneously evoking an incredibly silly sense of humor at the whole thing. I don’t think I’ve laughed so much at a show, well, ever. Not because there were Weird Al-style lyrics or comedic banter. It was more a joyous laughter, reveling at once in the intensity with which one experiences rock & roll and the absurdity of that intensity.
The Akrons transition from a capella crooning, with wheedling voices that evoke The Band and other classic Americana, to full-on jamming mode by hinging at the waist, turning away from their microphones with their backs to the audience, and bobbing their heads, long greasy locks of hair flailing in their faces. And they actually do rock out, which is cool. It’s clear they owe a debt of gratitude to the Grateful Dead with song lyrics that cite “mountains of the moon,” and at their last show at the Bowery Ballroom they flat-out covered both I Know You Rider and Turn On Your Lovelight.
If the audience has half as much fun as the band seems to be having on stage then they’re doing all right. And the audience seems to still know how to react to a band that’s jamming out - everywhere in view heads bop, arms flail, and fists pump the air. At one point the band coaxed the audience into a scream -off, counting off and then asking everyone to scream their heads off. A microphone was passed into the crowd so that everyone in the audience would be equally enfranchised with amplification as the band on stage. By the last song, Ed is a Portal, all hell seems to have broken lose, everyone's out of their head, the musicians are perched on each other's shoulders, and band and crowd have become one as everyone chants the lyrics, which everyone seems to know by heart, together.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
In praise of old-timey music
I've been listening to a lot of radio these days--specifically WKCR and WFMU (88.9 and 99.1 on the FM dial in NYC, respecively). Both are free-form, non-commercial stations (the first, owned by Columbia, the other entirely listener-supported), meaning they essentially get to play whatever they want. What this programming freedom ends up sounding like is a mix of music mostly made from between 40 and 70 years ago. So unless the only people listening to these stations are me and a bunch of grannies in their rockers enjoying the popular hits of their golden years, I'm not the only one who thinks this olden-time music sounds, ironically, somehow relevant and exciting.
WKCR anchors its schedule with Phil Schaap's program, Bird Flight, which airs Monday through Friday from 8:20 to 9:40 am and is devoted to providing an exegesis of the music and career of Charlie Parker in chronological order. At the present moment we're in 1945 and through a combination of scratchy 78 rpm records, primitive bootleg recordings, and primary source stories, the birth of bebop unfolds in real time. Schaap typically plays each recording more than once and provides detailed notes on personnel, background, and zeitgeist of each one. One of his frequent exhortations is that this super close way of listening to music is how it used to be done back in the day, when the music was first being made. Aficionados used to gather together around the turntable for listening parties where they would replay records together, discuss the solos, and debate what it meant. I like that idea. Throughout the day, the station usually doesn't veer far from this time period in their music selection, devoting multi-hour blocks to 78 rpm recordings documenting the careers of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Christian, or Duke Ellington on any given night.
WFMU, while aggressively eclectice across the board, definitely demonstrates a soft spot for late 60s-era garage rock and regional soul recordings. They pepper it with a healthy mix of 50s country, 70s african music, funk, and european prog rock, and early electronic music. Oh yeah, and they sometimes play new records too. But it helps if it was recorded using vintage equipment and a low-fi, hiss-laden aesthetic. WFMU even has a show called "The Old Codger Radio Program," where a curmudgeonly grandpa-voiced DJ yells at the "hippies with their filthy rock n roll" and plays all 78s by the type of bands that recorded in groups of siblings or went by minstrelesque nicknames like "Butterbeans."
Because I don't subscribe to XM, I regrettably can't access the program hosted by the ultimate American artist, Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour, whose tagline is "Themes, Dreams, and Schemes." But I take any chance that I can get to listen to recordings of episodes and consider it the ultimate American radio show. Every week, Dylan produces a program devoted to a particular archetypal theme such as Marriage, The Devil, or Mothers. He alternates songs by the type of cats he probably cut his teeth emulating like Hank Snow and T-Bone Walker with encomiums for the artist or commentary on the lyrics. It sounds fantastic - like he's recording in some anonymous studio in an abandoned building somewhere in the middle of nowhere in some nebulous time.
And of course there are the host of amazing music blogs. Whether it's the sites that devote themselves to a particular corner of musical arcana, such as the self-explanatory prewarblues.org, or general interest sites whose picks tend to be decades-old just as often as they consist of newly released music. The curators of these sites seem to say, with all of recorded music at our fingertips (thanks in no small part to the Internet), why limit ourselves to stuff that's brand new?
One might be inclined to chalk this up to the isolated taste of a certain brand of retro-styled music listener that tends to inhabit noncommercial radio or start their own mp3 blog, but the trend seems to be a more wide-reaching one. According to the RIAA, the sale of vinyl records grew by 36% last year compared to a 17% decline in CD sales over the same period. Certainly one commonality that the radio programs and music blogs I've been frequenting share, aside from the colorful commentary with which they supplement their selections, is the occasional crackle and pop surface noise from the ubiquitous vinyl they play. So it's not just me who's in love with that vintage sound.
A lot of it probably has to do with a certain natal comfort - with every decade that one regresses in one's listening brings a retreat to the womb and beyond to an archetypal prehistory. To track the sound of Blind Willie McTell to Hank Williams to Bob Dylan is like understanding the winter thaw and the coming of Spring through the myth of Persephone - it provides a parable of causal relationships that begin to make sense of bewildering sounds that are just emerging and too new to be fully explained. Sometimes listening to a new artist or type of music can feel violent, confrontational, too much an indictment on your own life and what you surround yourself with--a challenge. Old music is cozy, intelligible, decodable. Then there's the thrill of the archive, which is very much apiece with our current googlized moment in time.
WKCR anchors its schedule with Phil Schaap's program, Bird Flight, which airs Monday through Friday from 8:20 to 9:40 am and is devoted to providing an exegesis of the music and career of Charlie Parker in chronological order. At the present moment we're in 1945 and through a combination of scratchy 78 rpm records, primitive bootleg recordings, and primary source stories, the birth of bebop unfolds in real time. Schaap typically plays each recording more than once and provides detailed notes on personnel, background, and zeitgeist of each one. One of his frequent exhortations is that this super close way of listening to music is how it used to be done back in the day, when the music was first being made. Aficionados used to gather together around the turntable for listening parties where they would replay records together, discuss the solos, and debate what it meant. I like that idea. Throughout the day, the station usually doesn't veer far from this time period in their music selection, devoting multi-hour blocks to 78 rpm recordings documenting the careers of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Christian, or Duke Ellington on any given night.
WFMU, while aggressively eclectice across the board, definitely demonstrates a soft spot for late 60s-era garage rock and regional soul recordings. They pepper it with a healthy mix of 50s country, 70s african music, funk, and european prog rock, and early electronic music. Oh yeah, and they sometimes play new records too. But it helps if it was recorded using vintage equipment and a low-fi, hiss-laden aesthetic. WFMU even has a show called "The Old Codger Radio Program," where a curmudgeonly grandpa-voiced DJ yells at the "hippies with their filthy rock n roll" and plays all 78s by the type of bands that recorded in groups of siblings or went by minstrelesque nicknames like "Butterbeans."
Because I don't subscribe to XM, I regrettably can't access the program hosted by the ultimate American artist, Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour, whose tagline is "Themes, Dreams, and Schemes." But I take any chance that I can get to listen to recordings of episodes and consider it the ultimate American radio show. Every week, Dylan produces a program devoted to a particular archetypal theme such as Marriage, The Devil, or Mothers. He alternates songs by the type of cats he probably cut his teeth emulating like Hank Snow and T-Bone Walker with encomiums for the artist or commentary on the lyrics. It sounds fantastic - like he's recording in some anonymous studio in an abandoned building somewhere in the middle of nowhere in some nebulous time.
And of course there are the host of amazing music blogs. Whether it's the sites that devote themselves to a particular corner of musical arcana, such as the self-explanatory prewarblues.org, or general interest sites whose picks tend to be decades-old just as often as they consist of newly released music. The curators of these sites seem to say, with all of recorded music at our fingertips (thanks in no small part to the Internet), why limit ourselves to stuff that's brand new?
One might be inclined to chalk this up to the isolated taste of a certain brand of retro-styled music listener that tends to inhabit noncommercial radio or start their own mp3 blog, but the trend seems to be a more wide-reaching one. According to the RIAA, the sale of vinyl records grew by 36% last year compared to a 17% decline in CD sales over the same period. Certainly one commonality that the radio programs and music blogs I've been frequenting share, aside from the colorful commentary with which they supplement their selections, is the occasional crackle and pop surface noise from the ubiquitous vinyl they play. So it's not just me who's in love with that vintage sound.
A lot of it probably has to do with a certain natal comfort - with every decade that one regresses in one's listening brings a retreat to the womb and beyond to an archetypal prehistory. To track the sound of Blind Willie McTell to Hank Williams to Bob Dylan is like understanding the winter thaw and the coming of Spring through the myth of Persephone - it provides a parable of causal relationships that begin to make sense of bewildering sounds that are just emerging and too new to be fully explained. Sometimes listening to a new artist or type of music can feel violent, confrontational, too much an indictment on your own life and what you surround yourself with--a challenge. Old music is cozy, intelligible, decodable. Then there's the thrill of the archive, which is very much apiece with our current googlized moment in time.
Smokey's Roundup
July 23, 2008
Sunny's
Brooklyn
Smokey Hormel's western swing group plays for free most Wednesdays at Sunny's in Red Hook. With Smokey Hormel-guitar and vocals, Charlie Burnham-fiddle, Bob Hoffnar-pedal steel, Tim Luntzel - Bass. Konrad Meisner - Drums.
Jesse wrote about them for the Village voice .
Sunny's
Brooklyn
Smokey Hormel's western swing group plays for free most Wednesdays at Sunny's in Red Hook. With Smokey Hormel-guitar and vocals, Charlie Burnham-fiddle, Bob Hoffnar-pedal steel, Tim Luntzel - Bass. Konrad Meisner - Drums.
Jesse wrote about them for the Village voice .
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Hippies vs. Hipsters
Jesse Jarnow wrote a fantastic article about the Grateful Dead's evolving place on the cultural approval matrix in this month's Relix magazine: How The Grateful Dead Got Hip (Again)
Related: Bill Stites wrote a similarly-themed essay for my former venture, Boomsalon. Since the article was so good and the website is now defunct, I figure I'd repost it here, so as to prevent it from being lost forever into the cyberether.
The Greatest Band Ever
Bill Stites
I can't remember when or how I first became aware of the Grateful Dead. Growing up in the 80s they were part of the cultural background static - a curiously recurring character in my developing American mythology, one that seemed to become more and more contradictory as it grew into focus over time.
As a child, I would see those mysterious red and blue skulls, and those oddly fruity dancing bears, on the t-shirts that the 'bad kids' wore - the ones with the long hair and the Visine droppers. And I regularly ate an ice cream called Cherry Garcia, which I (naturally?) assumed was named after one of those grown-up desserts - "Bananas Foster" or "Baked Alaska" - whose taste it presumably approximated. When I told that to my parents one day they shared a good laugh and informed me that in fact there was a person, Jerry Garcia, who had given the flavor its name (and how was I to know that?), but they never bothered explaining to me who he was, or why he had inspired such a damn good ice cream. Something to do with the 60s, they said. Come to think of it, they might not have known themselves.
Once that highly-charged name - The Grateful Dead - did sink into my consciousness, I understandably concluded that they must be some kind of metal band, somewhere between Dio and Iron Maiden on the I-can't-believe-people-listen-to-this-crap continuum. But that didn't jibe with the clips of ancient-looking men playing what sounded like country music that I'd occasionally encounter on TV.
Well before I knew what these supposedly grateful Dead were about, though, or, aside from the bearded fat guy who'd had an ice cream named after him, who they were, I became certain of one thing: I hated them.
I saw how their name was used as a punchline, guaranteed to elicit knowing chuckles from parents and late-night talk show audiences. Eventually, I learned that there was no greater insult that could be levied towards a person, no faster way to strip him of his credibility, than to tar him with the label 'deadhead.' Even the word itself sounded bad - certainly I didn't want, at such a tender age, to develop a dead head. And once I learned that these disreputable people - who actually allowed themselves to be called that nasty name - would devote months of their lives to following these fat old fucks around, attending every show, it was pretty much open season.
Why exactly that was so funny to me I can't quite remember. If I ditched out on my job tomorrow and embarked on a mission to visit every baseball park in America - something I dreamed of doing at around the same age - it would be nothing less than a sepia-toned journey into the heart of our great nation, a soulful and patriotic personal quest. I might even be able to publish a book about it when I got back. Obsession in and of itself is not necessarily cause for mockery in this culture; hell, it's one of our defining characteristics as Americans. But how could anybody be that obsessed with those ridiculous-looking old men in the tie-dyes on TV? How totally lame.
And so I repeated all the same tired bromides so many others did about a band that had never done anything to us: "You'd have to be on drugs to like that music," "I'll be grateful when they're dead," ho ho ho. You'd think the fact that I had neither been less than totally sober in my life, nor really heard any of the Dead's actual music, and yet still made such pronouncements would have alerted me to the fact that I was not expressing my own original thoughts. But you try telling that to a 14-year old and see how far you get. It's not like many of them have any original thoughts to speak of anyway. (I sure didn't.)
To my everlasting shame, I was even wannabe-punk rock enough that when Garcia passed away, 10 years ago today, I publicly rejoiced, delighted that this maddeningly inexplicable cultural icon had been felled, grateful that these Deadheads, and the contradictions they embodied, would at last be vanquished from the land. "Get a job, hippie! Victory is ours." Once again, never having had a job, and lacking any clear sense of what it meant to be a hippie in that day and age, did not deter me from siding with the elusive 'us' who had somehow been vindicated by the man's death. After all, everything and everyone around me, every cultural weathervane I could perceive, told me that the Dead were a laughingstock, utterly uncool, the very embodiment of all that is shameful and wrong.
So you can imagine my surprise when, only a couple months later, I first heard more than a few minutes of their music, and instantly fell deeply and irrevocably in love.
In love with Garcia's sweetly cracking voice, fragile and human, real in a way that I'd never known a singer could be. In love with Bob Hunter's lyrics, timeless and distinctly American - stories of misfits and losers, and the fleeting shards of hope that kept them going. In love with the improvisation, violently abstract and yet completely communicative. And, eventually, in love with the sheer anachronism of it all - the very fact that they had persisted so long, remaining more or less themselves as the whole world changed around them.
And yet, a decade later, we Deadheads - yes, I now wear that label proudly, so bite me - still all too often keep ourselves closeted, having internalized the embarrassment we're still told we should feel, its patent absurdity notwithstanding.
Well, fuck that. Here's how it is: The Grateful Dead are the hippest goddamn rock band there ever was, and if you don't get it, YOU'RE the one who's not cool. That is no longer my - our - problem. I am embarking on a campaign, starting now, to see to it that those brilliant bastards finally get the respect they deserve, and I shall beat it out of you, o reader, with every rhetorical bludgeon I possess should you attempt to resist me.
Related: Bill Stites wrote a similarly-themed essay for my former venture, Boomsalon. Since the article was so good and the website is now defunct, I figure I'd repost it here, so as to prevent it from being lost forever into the cyberether.
The Greatest Band Ever
Bill Stites
I can't remember when or how I first became aware of the Grateful Dead. Growing up in the 80s they were part of the cultural background static - a curiously recurring character in my developing American mythology, one that seemed to become more and more contradictory as it grew into focus over time.
As a child, I would see those mysterious red and blue skulls, and those oddly fruity dancing bears, on the t-shirts that the 'bad kids' wore - the ones with the long hair and the Visine droppers. And I regularly ate an ice cream called Cherry Garcia, which I (naturally?) assumed was named after one of those grown-up desserts - "Bananas Foster" or "Baked Alaska" - whose taste it presumably approximated. When I told that to my parents one day they shared a good laugh and informed me that in fact there was a person, Jerry Garcia, who had given the flavor its name (and how was I to know that?), but they never bothered explaining to me who he was, or why he had inspired such a damn good ice cream. Something to do with the 60s, they said. Come to think of it, they might not have known themselves.
Once that highly-charged name - The Grateful Dead - did sink into my consciousness, I understandably concluded that they must be some kind of metal band, somewhere between Dio and Iron Maiden on the I-can't-believe-people-listen-to-this-crap continuum. But that didn't jibe with the clips of ancient-looking men playing what sounded like country music that I'd occasionally encounter on TV.
Well before I knew what these supposedly grateful Dead were about, though, or, aside from the bearded fat guy who'd had an ice cream named after him, who they were, I became certain of one thing: I hated them.
I saw how their name was used as a punchline, guaranteed to elicit knowing chuckles from parents and late-night talk show audiences. Eventually, I learned that there was no greater insult that could be levied towards a person, no faster way to strip him of his credibility, than to tar him with the label 'deadhead.' Even the word itself sounded bad - certainly I didn't want, at such a tender age, to develop a dead head. And once I learned that these disreputable people - who actually allowed themselves to be called that nasty name - would devote months of their lives to following these fat old fucks around, attending every show, it was pretty much open season.
Why exactly that was so funny to me I can't quite remember. If I ditched out on my job tomorrow and embarked on a mission to visit every baseball park in America - something I dreamed of doing at around the same age - it would be nothing less than a sepia-toned journey into the heart of our great nation, a soulful and patriotic personal quest. I might even be able to publish a book about it when I got back. Obsession in and of itself is not necessarily cause for mockery in this culture; hell, it's one of our defining characteristics as Americans. But how could anybody be that obsessed with those ridiculous-looking old men in the tie-dyes on TV? How totally lame.
And so I repeated all the same tired bromides so many others did about a band that had never done anything to us: "You'd have to be on drugs to like that music," "I'll be grateful when they're dead," ho ho ho. You'd think the fact that I had neither been less than totally sober in my life, nor really heard any of the Dead's actual music, and yet still made such pronouncements would have alerted me to the fact that I was not expressing my own original thoughts. But you try telling that to a 14-year old and see how far you get. It's not like many of them have any original thoughts to speak of anyway. (I sure didn't.)
To my everlasting shame, I was even wannabe-punk rock enough that when Garcia passed away, 10 years ago today, I publicly rejoiced, delighted that this maddeningly inexplicable cultural icon had been felled, grateful that these Deadheads, and the contradictions they embodied, would at last be vanquished from the land. "Get a job, hippie! Victory is ours." Once again, never having had a job, and lacking any clear sense of what it meant to be a hippie in that day and age, did not deter me from siding with the elusive 'us' who had somehow been vindicated by the man's death. After all, everything and everyone around me, every cultural weathervane I could perceive, told me that the Dead were a laughingstock, utterly uncool, the very embodiment of all that is shameful and wrong.
So you can imagine my surprise when, only a couple months later, I first heard more than a few minutes of their music, and instantly fell deeply and irrevocably in love.
In love with Garcia's sweetly cracking voice, fragile and human, real in a way that I'd never known a singer could be. In love with Bob Hunter's lyrics, timeless and distinctly American - stories of misfits and losers, and the fleeting shards of hope that kept them going. In love with the improvisation, violently abstract and yet completely communicative. And, eventually, in love with the sheer anachronism of it all - the very fact that they had persisted so long, remaining more or less themselves as the whole world changed around them.
And yet, a decade later, we Deadheads - yes, I now wear that label proudly, so bite me - still all too often keep ourselves closeted, having internalized the embarrassment we're still told we should feel, its patent absurdity notwithstanding.
Well, fuck that. Here's how it is: The Grateful Dead are the hippest goddamn rock band there ever was, and if you don't get it, YOU'RE the one who's not cool. That is no longer my - our - problem. I am embarking on a campaign, starting now, to see to it that those brilliant bastards finally get the respect they deserve, and I shall beat it out of you, o reader, with every rhetorical bludgeon I possess should you attempt to resist me.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Liars
July 20, 2008
McCarren Pool
Brooklyn
Fuck Buttons opened
Liars photos on Flickr
Review
After the Liars at McCarren Pool, which led seamlessly into post-show bingo in Greenpoint, and was capped off by devouring an entire pork shoulder Bo Ssam feast at Momofuku Ssam Bar, only 1 question remained: WHERE TO NEXT?!?! The show must go on, so we stumbled into Black & White bar on 10th street. When we first approached and the doorman said in an apologetic tone that they were hosting a private party, my normal pluckiness was placed aside and I was all-to-ready to take the dismissal as a sign that enough imbibing had taken place for one evening and head home. But just as I was about to thank the man and walk away, the doorman had a change of heart and said it seemed like we'd enjoy the party and should come inside. Well, fine then.
Just when I thought my fun quotient had been reached for the evening, this dancing queen kept me entertained for at least another hour into the night, as she got down to the DJ spinning records just outside the frame.
McCarren Pool
Brooklyn
Fuck Buttons opened
Liars photos on FlickrReview
After the Liars at McCarren Pool, which led seamlessly into post-show bingo in Greenpoint, and was capped off by devouring an entire pork shoulder Bo Ssam feast at Momofuku Ssam Bar, only 1 question remained: WHERE TO NEXT?!?! The show must go on, so we stumbled into Black & White bar on 10th street. When we first approached and the doorman said in an apologetic tone that they were hosting a private party, my normal pluckiness was placed aside and I was all-to-ready to take the dismissal as a sign that enough imbibing had taken place for one evening and head home. But just as I was about to thank the man and walk away, the doorman had a change of heart and said it seemed like we'd enjoy the party and should come inside. Well, fine then.
Just when I thought my fun quotient had been reached for the evening, this dancing queen kept me entertained for at least another hour into the night, as she got down to the DJ spinning records just outside the frame.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Siren Fest
Siren Fest
July 19, 2008
Coney Island
Stephen Malkmus
Links:
Photos at Brooklyn Vegan
More Photos at Brooklyn Vegan
Yet More photos at Brooklyn Vegan
NY Times review
July 19, 2008
Coney Island
Stephen Malkmus
Links:
Photos at Brooklyn Vegan
More Photos at Brooklyn Vegan
Yet More photos at Brooklyn Vegan
NY Times review
Saturday, July 19, 2008
You aint nuthin but a hole
It's often a source of great amusement for me how dirty songs could be in the past. Not to say that there isn't plenty of smut in today's music. (As an amusing aside, a friend of mine who is a school teacher wanted to play hip-hop for his students as part of a cultural appreciation lesson plan and after much digging could not find a single track without some kind of obscenity marring its suitability for the chil'rens... not even in "indy" or "conscious" rap.) But somehow, it just seems so much more transgressive in the context of music from bygone eras. When stuff got bawdy back then, it felt more like an opening of the curtain on a common parlance that was normally supressed whereas today's dirty music seems to mine salaciousness for shock value and make a show of its oppressive rudeness. I guess what I'm trying to say is that older tracks that contain cursing or that work blue seem much more innocent, like the musicians were just cutting loose after the session and didn't realize the tape recorder was on.
The great mp3 blog, Boogie Woogie Flu has a 45 from 1957 by a singer named Mercy Baby called "Silly Dilly Woman." And while it's never nice to call a lady a slut, a cunt, or a whorebag, Mercy Baby seems to get a lot of mileage out of referring to the bitch in his life as a "hole." Enjoy.
The great mp3 blog, Boogie Woogie Flu has a 45 from 1957 by a singer named Mercy Baby called "Silly Dilly Woman." And while it's never nice to call a lady a slut, a cunt, or a whorebag, Mercy Baby seems to get a lot of mileage out of referring to the bitch in his life as a "hole." Enjoy.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Person Pitch still sounds amazing (especially on drugs)
Panda Bear's 2007 album is well on it's way to becoming a timeless classic. But to make it even better, some of its fans suggest trying it in on -- get this! -- drugs.From a conversation on a music message board:
"if you are a fan of psychedelics try listening to this album in a k-hole(hate to be openly sketch). it will change your life."
I hate saying things like this on PT too but I have to agree with you on this. The last time I smoked DMT I listened to Person Pitch. It was amazing!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Blonde Ambition
Dungen
July 15, 2008
Le Poisson Rouge
NYC
This acoustic performance by the Swedish group was announced only a few days before it was scheduled and was essentially an industry showcase to support the band's new LP, 4. Only a very limited number of tickets were supposedly made available for this special show, so I was surprised to walk into the venue without anyone asking me for a ticket to find that it was only about half full. I must say, the crowd didn't look very "VIP" or "industry." In fact, it seemed that many people in the crowd had just wandered in off the street. One person even asked me if I knew who was playing tonight right before the show started. I told him and when he asked what they sounded like, I was able to conveniently say, "they sound like this," referring to the band's new album (which sounded pretty great) that was being played over the PA. Meanwhile, I had seen posts on craigslist by people groveling for tickets to this show. The lesson I keep learning the more I attend concerts in this town is to not get discouraged by a sold-out bill. Just show up to even the most "exclusive" of dates and you'll probably get in. But I digress.
The band was reduced from its usual four-piece to just leader, Gustav Ejstes, and drummer, Fredrik Björling. They started off with Ejstes on grand piano. After a few songs Ejstes joined Bjorling at the front of the stage to play guitar, before returning to the piano for a solo number and then reuniting with Bjorling for another song as well as a culturally ironic cover of Nas' "Who's world is this?" Dungen are a semiotically rich band to experience. Ejstes, with his long blonde feathered hair and his naif-like features, resembles a 70s-era movie star, or Teen Beat pin-up from that era. And the music, likewise, is better than a time capsule. It offers an authentic-feeling experience of that European-appropriating-psychedelic-folk-rock-sound-and-making-it-
freakier-and-more-experimental kind of thing. Like the product of a scenester in exile, or a shut-in who heard one great rock song and then spends the rest of his days composing homages to that mesmerizing sound in isolation from the way it has evolved around him. Reminds me of a lot of awesome, obscure albums I've encountered on Mutant Sounds.
Because the set was acoustic, it was much more restrained than one might hope but it made up for the lack of electricity in sheer loveliness and nuance. A stripped-down approach is not a bad way to really hone in on how sweet Dungen's songwriting is.
I believe they said this was to be their only North American appearance this year (which is odd if they just released an album) but I look forward to seeing a full-on presentation from these guys in the near future.
July 15, 2008
Le Poisson Rouge
NYC
This acoustic performance by the Swedish group was announced only a few days before it was scheduled and was essentially an industry showcase to support the band's new LP, 4. Only a very limited number of tickets were supposedly made available for this special show, so I was surprised to walk into the venue without anyone asking me for a ticket to find that it was only about half full. I must say, the crowd didn't look very "VIP" or "industry." In fact, it seemed that many people in the crowd had just wandered in off the street. One person even asked me if I knew who was playing tonight right before the show started. I told him and when he asked what they sounded like, I was able to conveniently say, "they sound like this," referring to the band's new album (which sounded pretty great) that was being played over the PA. Meanwhile, I had seen posts on craigslist by people groveling for tickets to this show. The lesson I keep learning the more I attend concerts in this town is to not get discouraged by a sold-out bill. Just show up to even the most "exclusive" of dates and you'll probably get in. But I digress.
The band was reduced from its usual four-piece to just leader, Gustav Ejstes, and drummer, Fredrik Björling. They started off with Ejstes on grand piano. After a few songs Ejstes joined Bjorling at the front of the stage to play guitar, before returning to the piano for a solo number and then reuniting with Bjorling for another song as well as a culturally ironic cover of Nas' "Who's world is this?" Dungen are a semiotically rich band to experience. Ejstes, with his long blonde feathered hair and his naif-like features, resembles a 70s-era movie star, or Teen Beat pin-up from that era. And the music, likewise, is better than a time capsule. It offers an authentic-feeling experience of that European-appropriating-psychedelic-folk-rock-sound-and-making-it-
freakier-and-more-experimental kind of thing. Like the product of a scenester in exile, or a shut-in who heard one great rock song and then spends the rest of his days composing homages to that mesmerizing sound in isolation from the way it has evolved around him. Reminds me of a lot of awesome, obscure albums I've encountered on Mutant Sounds.
Because the set was acoustic, it was much more restrained than one might hope but it made up for the lack of electricity in sheer loveliness and nuance. A stripped-down approach is not a bad way to really hone in on how sweet Dungen's songwriting is.
I believe they said this was to be their only North American appearance this year (which is odd if they just released an album) but I look forward to seeing a full-on presentation from these guys in the near future.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Honest Jon's
Honest Jon's Revue
Avery Fischer Hall at Lincoln Center
July 12, 2008
The show was a celebration of the Honest Jon's record label, started by Damon Albarn of Blur and Gorillaz fame, and featured a roster of its recording artists. While I associate Honest Jon's with its more ethnographic series, such as "London is the place for me," which chronicles the calypso scene among expatriate islanders in postcolonial London, or its forays into music from Mali, the show presented a mix of performers from America and Africa. This made for a somewhat awkward pairing, and every time the white girl with her sensitive lyrics and indy sensibility took her turn at the mike, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting for the Africans to start playing again. And did I mention that Tony Allen was the drummer? Tony Allen!
Sorry this picture is so crappy. An usher came and yelled at me as soon as I'd hit the button on my camera.
Avery Fischer Hall at Lincoln Center
July 12, 2008
The show was a celebration of the Honest Jon's record label, started by Damon Albarn of Blur and Gorillaz fame, and featured a roster of its recording artists. While I associate Honest Jon's with its more ethnographic series, such as "London is the place for me," which chronicles the calypso scene among expatriate islanders in postcolonial London, or its forays into music from Mali, the show presented a mix of performers from America and Africa. This made for a somewhat awkward pairing, and every time the white girl with her sensitive lyrics and indy sensibility took her turn at the mike, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting for the Africans to start playing again. And did I mention that Tony Allen was the drummer? Tony Allen!
Sorry this picture is so crappy. An usher came and yelled at me as soon as I'd hit the button on my camera.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Boris
July 10, 2008
Webster Hall
Boris were joined by Michio Kurihara of Ghost. [Bonus: download Sunset Notes, Kurihara's 2005 album]
An awesome collection of pictures from the show can be found on BrooklynVegan.
More photos.
Webster Hall
Boris were joined by Michio Kurihara of Ghost. [Bonus: download Sunset Notes, Kurihara's 2005 album]
An awesome collection of pictures from the show can be found on BrooklynVegan.
More photos.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Soul Pool Party
Ronnie Spector, who put on a fantastic performance despite admitting several times to being overwhelmed by the heat, told the crowd that she still loves the doo-wop. And it showed in her performance of mostly classic songs from her days in the classic girl group, The Ronettes.
Ralph "Soul"Jackson was one of the openers. Check out the wig on that man!Check out BrooklynVegan for a collection of much better pictures from this event.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Independence Day
I celebrated my freedom on July 4th this year by seeing the free Sonic Youth/Feelies show in Battery Park.
Then chased that with a secret Guns & Roses show at the intimate Bowery Ballroom. The crowd went wild!
Nah, actually it was GnR cover band, Mr. Brownstoner. I got doused with a full cup of beer and all I have to show for it is this new bra that landed on me after being flung stageward. The show was serious, though, in an extremely fun, highly debaucherous way.
Then chased that with a secret Guns & Roses show at the intimate Bowery Ballroom. The crowd went wild!
Nah, actually it was GnR cover band, Mr. Brownstoner. I got doused with a full cup of beer and all I have to show for it is this new bra that landed on me after being flung stageward. The show was serious, though, in an extremely fun, highly debaucherous way.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Feelies at Maxwell's
July 1, 2008
Hoboken
Seeing these guys play live was like encountering the Rosetta Stone for indy rock.
Hoboken
Seeing these guys play live was like encountering the Rosetta Stone for indy rock.
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